Malleable by Valentine Cano
I have sewn a tablecloth out of hours
threading entire days into its rows and columns,
waving time into something I can fold and iron out.
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in 2014 and was called a “strong and satisfying effort” by Publishers Weekly.
You Gave Me to a Dead Woman by Angela Dawn
i.
with sparrows for eyes.
long fingers
made of ash
a bottle blonde
drowned in milk
full of children, she
filled me with
formula, she
loved me with
dry bone.
Kansas girl
carried on a southern wind
while you
re-started your life
after the most difficult pregnancy
with a Pittsburgh man
she
fell in love beneath a
young oak and
mothered me before she
died, like many union soldiers
in the capital
of the confederacy.
at night i get cold
i cover up with sparrows
one thousand tiny heartbeats
tell me sleep, be still
they say i’m loved. they
speak in code
i never learned.
this will
mean something
someday.
so while you watch my world
burn away
that is what i tell you;
this will
mean something
someday.
ii.
“you didn’t grieve enough
when your mama died,”
says the P.E. teacher
in the doorway
of the girls bathroom
after breaking up
another locker room fight
she is in her thirties.
but she did not
see my mother’s bed
how i slept in it
for years, even when i was
old enough not to
and she did not
see her birds
how they covered me
like an electric blanket
fighting fire with flame.
Angela Dawn is a poet living in the South Bronx. Her work appears in Least Bittern Books, Cloudy Cephalopod, and Silver Birch Press and she has a poem forthcoming in THRUSH Poetry Journal. Originally from Richmond, VA, Angela currently writes and studies dance near her home in historic Mott Haven but you can also find her at hippie movement circles, yoga studios and clubs without bottle service in Manhattan. Read more at https://angeladawnpoetry.wordpress.com/
Sunday Is the Day I Paint My Nails Pretty by Jessie Janeshek
trust I can’t escape the thick gel of this galaxy.
It’s so hot time stops
and I take off my shirt
bake mermaids or louses or love in our oven.
Sunday’s the day for velour and omissions
so I drink your milkshake
to sleep for three days
dream my father bites me so I’ll dye a moon
on the back of black cat in a lesbian movie.
At sun-turn, I wake to read Zoo Books
cockatiels shipped in newspapers
a koala bear suckling a freeze pop.
At sun-turn, I troop through the doll heads
remove my compression my massacre madness.
I try the dry ice, the masked men
the gin. I try motorbikes.
Sometimes I cradle a waterbreak, sometimes a liver
but the black cat dies waiting and I still can’t do calculus
and the pink-voiced computer still whispers
Rhythm is essential to the instrument
Paris your pussy an earache this colony.
Take all the cysts from your old poems and bury them here
and if this doesn’t work just obliterate.
Dark Heat and Damp Leatherette by Jessie Janeshek
Down in the valley we want to laugh like a jukebox
cheat, meet our sister the gingerbread undulate
but we wait for the death-hat to settle instead
we pierce the yellow kite flying.
Here a limb there a limb down in the valley
did William snap and kill Alexandra?
We bebop to the bus stop can’t do geometry.
Down in the valley we make chemistry sacred
push up, prostitute, procreate.
The cat-loving ragdoll photographs slowly
down in the valley dragging a pram.
Down in the valley
the doctor says tragedy cheapens our palms
the blue stream runs nude with our money
the ghost girl comes out of the pantry
to help solve the mystery.
Jessie Janeshek’s first book of poems is Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010). An Assistant Professor of English and the Director of Writing at Bethany College, she holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. She co-edited the literary anthology Outscape: Writings on Fences and Frontiers (KWG Press, 2008). You can read more of her poetry at http://www.jessiejaneshek.net/.
contribution by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
a presumptuous thing
a day out
of puberty
who’s contribution
to the day
was coordinating
her scrubs
took your vitals
then asked if I believed
in god
you were floating
somewhere
between drugged
and dumbstruck
I was neck deep
between
Rod Sterling
and Edgar Allan
I may have
insulted her
naivety her
inappropriateness
her very presence
in my collapsed universe
but
she asked permission
to pray anyway
Carlinville IL native Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL – population 200, give or take. Since graduating from Long Ridge Writers Group in 2009, 322 pieces of nonfiction, poetry and flash fiction appear in 121 print and electronic publications. Her debut book This Same Small Town in Each of Us (released October 30, 2011), a collection of 23 essays (13 reprints), 14 flash fiction (11 reprints) and 9 poems (7 reprints) is available for purchase through Amazon. A full-length poetry manuscript is currently stalking unsuspecting presses.
The Secret of the Universe by Kyle Hemmings
As a bow-legged love child, she was a girl genius. The year might have been 1917 & she amazed her teacher by writing in chalky longhand, a yellow flavor–The Secret of the Universe. She didn’t need physics or Galileo’s lost heresies. The teacher was later convicted of desertion from the trenches of WWI. When her mother’s secret was revealed, the girl moved east, took refuge as a worker in a mayonnaise jar factory, wore leather aprons that made her feel heavy, gourd-grounded. The sun rose & set like a fat lazy boy dreaming of crayons. She gave birth to three empty rooms & settled for the solace of dust. She came home with cuts in her hands but managed to write mother that she was doing fine. Wars passed. Dictators drank Espresso then stroked out. Their sons switched to decaffeinated & the daughters made wine from ruined grapes. The universe stretched or revealed new planets. The girl became a woman-orbit & died from inhaling too much asbestos. Her artificial rubber plants stayed mute at the window. She died without leaving a diary. The universe sighed. It was relieved.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Your Impossible Voice, Night Train, Toad, Matchbox and elsewhere. His latest ebook is Father Dunne’s School for Wayward Boys at amazon.com. He blogs at http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/
Small Sample by Karen Neuberg
I’m a small sample. Of a micro part. Of less.
Yet within is an always. Is an all.
I must remember the universe. The proportion.
That I am portion. Have a portion. Use it.
I call it to me & call it ‘mine’.
{What} have you called yours?
Sometimes I swear I can almost reach through
and stand where all the dimensions
overlap. And there I am, riding my scooter, my bike,
driving the car down the highway to the beach.
A baby, my baby, latches onto me. Later,
I let her go. She goes. This is a small sample
of my small sample. Entirely my own and
fused to the continuum. Much like you.
Like yours. Together, we make what all this is.
We need to offer each other our hands.
Karen Neuberg lives in Brooklyn, NY where she writes poetry and creates collages. She is the author of two chapbooks: Myself Taking Stage (Finishing Line Press) and Detailed Still (Poets Wear Prada). Recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Paper Nautilus, Pirene’s Fountain, The Vehicle, and Tinderbox and she is associate editor of the online journal First Literary Review-East.
After the Storm by Parisorn Thepmankorn
There was once when we didn’t stutter
like the rut of a piston: remember
how you imagined us as lustrous, gilded
with your mother’s honey tongue, the way
we planned to take the city of sun
by night—I’ve always imagined this
post-war grandeur and glory,
the rhythmic cadence of subversion;
but recall how narcissus drowned in
himself and dragged echo with him.
Afterwards, the lilies rose back
atop the watery plain, forgot how it is
to want and lose, again, a hundred times.
Parisorn Thepmankorn is an aspiring poet from a small town in New Jersey. Her work has been recognized in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and is published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Black Heart Magazine, and Paper Crown Magazine, among others.
Skin Tales by Sarah Lilius
My body, that invisible body that girls keep.
~Anne Sexton
Our skin cells, different
tiny animals than days
we were small girls, hairless
princesses with dirty skirt hems.
Barbie and Ken would do it,
plastic sex, a fast grind and drop
back to the tea party.
Barbie’s blond hair
tragically knotted, unbrushable.
Mother would brush
my ratted hair, I would cry
as if this were the real violence.
Our skin cells, buffed
and soft in high school,
ready for touch,
in unknown basements,
we were teases,
keeping the prize hot.
All we found were hard-ons
on old couches, boys without condoms.
Boys found other girls,
always willing to share
without smiles,
no real reflections
on their skin,
still tight, still smooth.
Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA where she’s a poet, editor, mother and wife. Her most recent publications include Hermeneutic Chaos, The Bleeding Lion, and Moss Trill. She is also the author of What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications, 2014). Her website is sarahlilius.com.
Not a Girl Yet by Sarah Pritchard
I swing backwards off metal railings
by the back of my knees
head inches above the concrete
and roller skate or go-cart
down a car lined hill
and make for a gap in the corner
or scooter
after my mother’s Beetle
away from the au pere
who couldn’t stop me
from playing with matches
or take on the bully who ran me over
with his bike
or bite the backs of other boys
I don’t like the look of
or swim to the raft in the lake
with snakes underneath
and try to rock everyone else off
or dive off the highest diving board
because my cousin was too scared to
and climb and climb and climb
to the tops of trees & roof tops & rocky look-outs.
And now my hips are exploding
and my chest is budding
and my father says
I’m sitting on a gold mine
and there are girls
who are not boys any more
who wear shirts all summer
and have come down from the trees
and away from me and the other boys
and sit in shadows glowering at a distance
and read books and books and books
whole collections of pages with no pictures
and I know I am not a girl yet
because I still feel my eyeball
rolling across the words heavily
and I still can’t reach the end of the story
because my pockets are full of swapsies
and better things to do
and Patty says there are arrowheads
down by the bull frog pond
where we found the neat rabbit skeleton
hanging in the bush up-side-down,
so Patty’s not a girl yet either I guess.
Sarah Pritchard: A trans-Atlantic yo-yo of a life; a US military baby born in Norfolk, made in Manchester. Currently a freshly retired drama & English teacher. Pippi Longstocking like I live with animals and spend spare hours free ranging with my dogson Louis-the-lurcher, who walks me in the wild ‘turnupstuffing’ & marveling at all of life. Sassi-the- cat regularly tries to join us.
Still personal & political. Writing & performing in Manchester, UK since 1981; playback theatre Manchester 23 years. Has been published in a number of anthologies: Beyond Paradise, The West in Her Eyes, Cahoots, Urban Poetry, Nailing the Colours, Manchester Poets Volume3, Raindog & Grapple Annual. Breast -‘ocassionally the lilmitations of the love lyric are transcended…Sarah beautifully integrates the themes of the political & personal mutilation into a love narrative.’ Livi Michael North West Arts Magazine.
Swansong in Winter by Melissa Leighty
At the water’s edge, a ballet
of black swans hovers
near their young,
still too small to push
out of the proverbial nest.
Mirrored in the water
are the cygnets’ unflushed
wings, juvenile plumage,
unapparelled yet
with the delicate bones
that will structure their later grace
and make flight possible.
February finds
the leaden twigs of branches laced
against a leaden sky
where seedpods hang
like bark-dry cherries, dead anthems
for the last rite of spring.
Yet, in the distance, grey hills frame
a collaboration of petals
conspiring against milkwinter light.
The land sinks and settles
into a premature spring
uncomfortable still in its own skin.
In my classes, too, I feel a change.
My students, like pale pink flowers,
fling themselves unfurled
into the world unbidden
except by the primal notes of spring.
The air suddenly runs electric
between them in subtle ways,
a taxonomy of desire unfolds
into a hierarchy of love
unsung.
They are molting
before my very eyes.
Young trumpeters,
they chuck out raspy calls
in conference
with one another—
more cacophony
than symphony—
and shake their new plumage,
for in this, their second winter,
they sing anew.
Melissa Leighty is an American writer currently living in Barcelona. I divide my time between my personal writing—poems and essays–and freelance writing for magazines. I am also at work on two exciting new projects: a cookbook about Catalan cuisine and a collaboration on a photo book about a neighborhood in Tokyo.
NYC by Glen Armstrong
We muddle through with light
and distance:
mundane disturbances
that Richard Kern
would find offensive,
silences and bare
naked murmurs that John
Cage would dismiss.
Our love is thistle flowering
in a dead man’s closet,
the pink crumble of erasure
on the c student’s paper:
all daydream and nation,
all weed and remarks
so carefully chosen
that they’re taken
for some sort of silent
hipster dismissal.
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three new chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
of us (iwonder) by Brigitte Morency
how busy are you
(iwonder)?
how little time do you really have
for yourself
//
for others
//
for me?
connect with me
–please–
put aside your busyness
and look me in the eye.
show me that you see me,
here,
as i see you,
there.
how is your soul?
tell me.
(iamlistening)
how is your heart?
beat to me.
(beatwithmine)
vibrate with me!
–have you tried it?–
hum/crash/chant/scream
in tandem with my
/screams
/chants
/crashes
/hummings…
connect with me
if only
if only
if only for a moment
–just one of a million in our lives–
and
,oh,
feel it stretch and tug
at the borders
(ofyouandme)
for if –we– are lucky
out will burst:
us.
Before I knew what it was to be scared, I braided black yarn into my long blonde hair. A dash of darkness to match my chain belt and plaid pants. To match my parent’s rotting marriage, my trendy angst. I pretended it belonged there–that I had grown such a thing.
When I became pretty as a punchline to jokes boys made about dumb girls, I twirled it between my fingers. I collected moments of men running their hands through it, tangled and dirty the morning after, sighing about how long it was.
You’re that blonde girl.
You’re the prettiest I’ve ever slept with.
You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen
at the bars.
The magazines say that men prefer it hanging down to the middle of my back. They don’t say that this makes me more of a target. That it can be fashioned into an extra limb to grab, one that can’t hit back. My hair followed me to bars, extending invitations to men without consulting me.
And he’d been no different – He’d slipped drink after drink to my hair. Wrapped it around his knuckles and asked it to dance, to let out a schoolgirl giggle. To sit on his lap, its strands draping across the sticky bar floor.
It was years before I learned the true story of Medusa. The one with Poseidon as the guy at the bar circling her in a cloud of smoke, an ocean waiting to swallow her whole. The one with her being punished for her short skirt. Her long hair. For the drink in her hand, for her existence, for what he took. Instead we name the one who beheaded her Hero, the one who raped her a God. Instead, we name her Monster. Because what else should you call a woman with power, a woman with a gaze that’s stronger than yours?
Back at the bar, my hair was wrapped around his knuckles, his body an ocean tidal waving toward me. I never thought of cutting it before that day. Fourteen inches, two yellow thick tails that had to be bound with rubber bands. The day I left him, the day I left all of them, the twin snakes of my hair writhed on the floor. They grew fangs and I told them your names.
lovely to see, inspiring to read! thank you!
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