LIKE A RIVER FLOWS by Laura Eppinger
So many things I couldn’t help, couldn’t
stop, I was far away. But now baby
sister is moving out, first time, 25. I
visit her hotel room, relocation paid
and we hunt for places. My boyfriend
drives. (Her boyfriend stays
away.) We catch a song nothing but grains—
static of radio waves. She recognizes
it quick, I don’t, I’m far away. Our parents’
wedding song. We fill in the gaps when weary
signal fades, we three a bridge in this
moment no king could shake. And I
wonder, What does love make? It made
us, in the 30 years since this song
once played. Though it can’t stop you growing
petty or afraid. Can’t keep you from wandering far
one day. Still I’ll pray: If I never stop running
or learn to brake, If I never can hear what wise men
say, if God help me I remain a fool
rushing, rushing to the sea, let me know
what love made, sister lover me.
Laura Eppinger graduated from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA in 2008 with a degree in Journalism, and she’s been writing creatively ever since. She’s a staff blogger at Newfound Journal and podcaster with GameNight Media.
UNTITLED by Simon Perchik
What chance does this moon have
the way for a few hours every day
not one drop makes it back, held down
as the thirst that never lets go
and you swallow hillside into hillside
–a few hours! that’s all and the moon
still trying, takes from your jawbone
some ancient sea half marrow, half
no longer flowing through as moonlight
heavier and heavier with the entire Earth
backing you up when the moon is lifted whole
from inside your mouth, to be returned
then gather you in for the fire
that is nothing without the night sky
still claiming you with headwinds and rain
even when there is no rain
–there is no fire left though the moon
never dries, clings to your lips
the way this dirt drinks as much as it can
and everything it touches is want
–you don’t have to empty all these flowers.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
BLUE DIGGER BEE by James Croal Jackson
do blue digger bees buzz like honey bees do
or like jazz from tinny speakers
the city night starves for jazz
just a little touch finger on palm
yes I am over your plaid cheeks
like physically my eyes are exhausted
the out-of-order escalator will move no further
yes we waded in pastel watercolors
soft peal of wetting paint
temperance of modern rain
kestrels singing in forever air
tints of cerulean debasing the feather coat
deftness of a painter’s hands
what loneliness in the canvas will glimmer in a gallery of twenty-first century still life
that is real
the mixture of white and black paint stain so entwined in the fingers gripped by brush
the challenge of how do you make this Vietnamese-man-sitting-alone-at-a-table as compelling
as a bucket of salt dipping from the sky
I think of a plodding pizzicato on a yellow glass harp
children in red shoes lining up for a king-sized carousel
our teeth are the strings on the replacement years from now
somehow the present is pregnant with the future
somehow my mouth is fanged to nearly ask
fingers hold music that has not been heard
arpeggio flower petals drifting in the wind
umbrage in the gutters
fingernails recycle them into leaves
the digger emerges from sand
and creeps back into its widowed sepulcher
MEDITATIONS ON SLEEPING IN MY CAR by James Croal Jackson
Paradise is worse than this. I’ve pissed
in the golden streets of Beverly Hills.
The stars depart their private cabs,
shoes on the ground. I’ve pissed in beach sand
with the waterbirds, the full balloon
at sunrise, wind swaying. The neighborhood
has my back. I spit fish fluoride
into grass. Splotches of next-day death
in circles brown and black. Windows fog. Yeah
I’m an airplane in a cloud. Should’ve wrapped that scarf
around my neck until my head fell off. The night is
a broken refrigerator, top shelf. Tell that to the rotting
trunk sushi. Still, some spiders creep through cracks and
keep the feet and urine smells out. Bent to a backseat
sockball and time is an envelope I hand to a stranger.
How his home stinks of sweat and mildew
and old Havarti. Fiona has crank windows
and that new car smell and floating dust.
I can’t spit enough. Blame it on the vermouth.
In the morning, I floss my coal moon fingernails
with flamenco strings. Neighbors run
past but who needs pants.
Say hello to the father and his
baby in the stroller. Say hello
to the fleshy whites. Say
hello to everlasting days
of luxury where the days
don’t end, the nights never
end, again and again
the fishing rod window
cranks, the invited crows–
the feasts of mud– say
hello and wave and caw.
James Croal Jackson lives for art and adventure. He grew up near Akron, Ohio and spent a few years living in Los Angeles. He moved to Columbus, Ohio after living in his 2012 Ford Fiesta over a period that spanned eight months and thirty-seven states. Find more of his work at www.jimjakk.com.
{PRONG & POSY} 