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Stone Highway Review<br />
Issue <strong>4.1</strong><br />
Oct 2014
Stone Highway Review is a new journal of poetry<br />
and prose, dedicated to publishing women and<br />
other underrepresented voices. Stone Highway<br />
Review wants to publish the beautiful, the exciting,<br />
the new. Stone Highway Review is edited by<br />
Amanda Hash, Katie Longofono, and Mary Stone Dockery.<br />
Stone Highway Review is published three<br />
times a year. Submissions are welcome through<br />
the submission manager found on our website,<br />
at www.stonehighway.com.<br />
Copyright 2014 by Stone Highway Review<br />
ISSN 2162-3686 (print)<br />
2162-3678 (online)<br />
Cover Credits: Mandi Cook “This Land Was Our Land”
Table of Contents<br />
Hungry for a Hello Vinita Agrawal................................................................................................. 1<br />
Forest as Story Amy Ash and Callista Buchen ............................................................................. 2<br />
Eyes as Shield Amy Ash and Callista Buchen ............................................................................... 3<br />
Alphabet as Market Amy Ash and Callista Buchen ................................................................... 4<br />
2 Poems Lisa Marie Bastile ................................................................................................................... 5<br />
The Window Factory Workers’ Night Out A.M. Brant ..................................................... 6<br />
To and Fro Emily Capettini ....................................................................................................................7<br />
The Theory of Displacement Suggests Moriah Cohen ........................................................ 8<br />
This is my Body Emily Rose Cole ....................................................................................................... 9<br />
Boxcar Willie Doesn’t Live Here Anymore Chauna Craig ............................................ 10<br />
It Starts with Allergies Risa Denenberg ...................................................................................... 11<br />
Morse Code Jennifer Faylor ............................................................................................................... 12<br />
Haunted Ruth Foley................................................................................................................................ 13<br />
Obscura: The Daguerreotype Series Julie Gard .................................................................. 14<br />
Heavy Air Sara Ghoshal ....................................................................................................................... 16<br />
In the Rendaku Forest Derek Graf ............................................................................................... 18<br />
Arachnid, in Allegory KT Gutting ................................................................................................. 19<br />
Pillow Talk Sara Henning .................................................................................................................. 20<br />
Babel Rae Hoffman ................................................................................................................................ 21<br />
Fat Girl at Weight Watchers Meeting Jennifer Jackson Berry ................................... 22<br />
National Dream Share Day Brett Elisabeth Jenkins .......................................................... 23<br />
Removing Hurricane Debris Mark Allen Jenkins ............................................................... 24<br />
Between Bouts of Insomnia Les Kay .........................................................................................25<br />
The Eye Surgeon Jill Khoury .......................................................................................................... 26<br />
Identifying the Ruby-Throated Hummingbird Erin Koehler .................................... 28<br />
Property Rachel Lake .......................................................................................................................... 29<br />
After the Sewol Sank, 2014 Kristin LaTour ........................................................................... 30<br />
To See the Thing M. Mack ................................................................................................................. 31<br />
Melancholia Blinks Sarah Miller Freehauf ............................................................................... 32<br />
Wolf Pelt: $50 T.A. Noonan ............................................................................................................. 33<br />
Steam Engine 1023 Al Ortolani ..................................................................................................... 34<br />
A Synonym for Flock is Mob Carla Panciera .........................................................................35<br />
End of Days Christopher Petruccelli............................................................................................... 36<br />
The Moon Hanger Kate Soules ...................................................................................................... 38<br />
You, and You Letitia Trent ............................................................................................................... 39<br />
Little Love Poem Letitia Trent ....................................................................................................... 40<br />
Codependent Donna Vorreyer ......................................................................................................... 41<br />
Release Kami Westhoff ........................................................................................................................ 42<br />
Early Warning Kami Westhoff ....................................................................................................... 43<br />
Babylon Megan Willoughby .............................................................................................................. 44<br />
Theater of March Sarah Ann Winn ............................................................................................. 45<br />
Contributors ........................................................................................................................................... 46<br />
i
Vinita Agrawal<br />
Hungry For A Hello<br />
This fat body is a lie<br />
True is the tub of buttered popcorn in my lap<br />
and the huge packet of chips by my side<br />
Its hunger is a lie<br />
My heart is the ravenous one<br />
I am adept at burrowing inside cracks<br />
when I spot lovelessness<br />
Skilled at living in between the floor boards<br />
when people walk over me<br />
I am a discarded umbilical cord crying for a foetus<br />
My screams ribbon unheard through eons of time<br />
My fat body is a lie<br />
You should see it from within<br />
It is lean like a new moon<br />
emaciated as the setting sun<br />
thin as hope in a beggar's eyes<br />
gaunt as the marrow in centenarian bones<br />
You can destroy me anytime<br />
with a loose word, an acid glance<br />
I'll come down like a house of cards<br />
at the slightest puff of acrid winds<br />
My bellows cannot light my fire<br />
nor my ankles weight lift, the shackles of disdain<br />
I cannot holler, I cannot stomp about<br />
For I am spindly like a new born doe<br />
You would see me as thin<br />
without the mess I am inside.<br />
1
Amy Ash and Callista Buchen<br />
Forest as Story<br />
woodland, jungle, plant, floor<br />
landing, tier, untruth, account<br />
Beside the mosses, chanterelles burst in gold flourishes over some other season’s oak leaves. We don’t know<br />
what to crush. Shoeless, our toes touch padded ground, plush carpet. We kneel at a tree trunk, split open like<br />
a storybook. Inside, we bury hands in rotted bark. We think softness, we think quiet, as if we can read the<br />
flood of insect song, scuttle and mumble in the alburnum. Wings, legs, antennae, fragile as eyelash. Blink and<br />
the sky slides between branches, flutters in the wind. What we think we hold is slippery. Shadows, shapes,<br />
until we can’t tell time. Hunger hovers like fog. Behind us, the wolves breathe.<br />
2
Amy Ash and Callista Buchen<br />
Eyes as Shield<br />
judgments, appreciations, senses, discernments<br />
protection, armor, defense, buffer<br />
With eyelids closed, we feel<br />
forward, as if leaning, falling,<br />
diving into blackness, into bruise.<br />
Hands up, we push against<br />
shade and shadow, press into<br />
against behind ourselves. A mirror<br />
gunmetal gray, and polished. Look<br />
at your opposite, at the distance<br />
<strong>shr</strong>inking and distorted, an iris<br />
tunneling light into vision. We go<br />
without atlas or guidebook, follow<br />
the passage, even as the light<br />
deceives us. Border, barrier, fence<br />
the prick and hustle the tears<br />
even torn, even tattered, we see<br />
the eyeless horizon, impossible,<br />
how it breaks the world in the two.<br />
3
Amy Ash and Callista Buchen<br />
Alphabet as Market<br />
bazaar, fair, promote, sell<br />
language, letter, script, tongue<br />
The market’s archway, ridged like the roof of a mouth. Even after<br />
the sounds crawl away into corners, moon licked across<br />
and swallowed in a pink, throaty sky, corridor collapsing as we call<br />
with tongues already closed for the night. We want to sell<br />
what language we own, but words only curl behind our teeth, unable<br />
to sound. Corridors empty, the stalls still promise. Whispers:<br />
desire, devour. We read the writing, symbol and rune, our fingers<br />
eager, like mouths, tips raw from lapping against the sand.<br />
Under our touch, castles crumble, alphabets erode.<br />
We are going to bury the sounds, let the moan of shifting earth<br />
write us into morning. Rubble and remnant, we’ll buy<br />
the scraps, fruit and fish, scattered before us like stones, like tongues.<br />
4
Lisa Marie Basile<br />
2 Poems<br />
we cannot sustain the abundant<br />
in us the girl is a levee instead;<br />
so feckless we split the grape<br />
we drink in order of height so that the tallest<br />
falls hardest.<br />
a girl's blood can be seen in a kind of light,<br />
a kitchen table light, the circular ones, with a box unopened,<br />
a box, and crushlillies: what is in it, what is of them?<br />
and a table cloth. goldenrod,<br />
woundcolored. at the table we pronounce our names<br />
as if we own them.<br />
we are the bodies of them,<br />
and the name is of some other thing. a victory, a knot.<br />
we make champagne of ourselves for one another<br />
held high.<br />
one day we will step from chairs<br />
and celebrate death.<br />
the ceiling fan will<br />
spin slowly,<br />
the table watching<br />
light watching.<br />
i really was<br />
inverted. i draped knee of blanket<br />
over grassy field. i became the field.<br />
i really was love. i woke wide<br />
to the light, and thought<br />
bully.<br />
smooth yellow wash too beautiful to put into a box,<br />
or a small dish shaped of<br />
a shape we do not know.<br />
i really was wanton,<br />
shaped up and over arched back bent belly out,<br />
we caught my red mouth on you out the door.<br />
let me combine of me the things in you, let me.<br />
i really was full this time,<br />
field full, a flora, body open, body bound.<br />
5
A.M. Brant<br />
the window factory workers’ night out<br />
lamasco’s bar & grill—evansville, indiana<br />
ten on a friday night, no windows to make on weekends.<br />
back when i was still chain-smoking, back when<br />
you could still smoke in bars, when you were still<br />
married, still trying to get me to give you blow jobs<br />
on lunch hour. this was the night<br />
you looked at me with feeling, then followed your wife<br />
into the ladies room and fucked her against the wall, came<br />
back, wet temples and a smirk, put your hand on my knee<br />
under the table, looked at me again, sorry and not sorry<br />
all at once. this was not the first or last time<br />
you or another man would do something like this,<br />
say something like you’re too good for me or want me<br />
to put this dick in you?<br />
6
Emily Capettini<br />
To and Fro<br />
“She lied to me! She was wrong,” weeps the former student on the stand. The court is full of<br />
spectators, and I watch silently as she gives her testimony. “She told me ‘I felt a Funeral in my Brain’ was<br />
about madness, not death, but someone else told me that’s wrong! She lied to me.”<br />
Some of the spectators gasp, but most others are hunched over with their arms beneath the seats in<br />
front of them. One of them has forgotten to turn off his text message notifications, and the courtroom<br />
speakers <strong>shr</strong>iek a static tttttt tata-ta tata-ta with each cellphone’s interference. Tap dancing mourners, to and<br />
fro.<br />
My lawyer, Ralph Waldo Emerson, turns towards me and <strong>shr</strong>ugs, his dusty, age-worn suit trembling<br />
under the pressure of movement when it has been still for so long. He asks for a recess, and I later find him<br />
lying under a tree with a book, insects scuttling along his white, seashell bones.<br />
“What are you doing?”<br />
“Living deliberately.”<br />
I frown, but decide not to tell him that’s Thoreau, nor mention how long he’s been dead. The latter<br />
must be obvious to him with every turn of the page.<br />
“You shouldn’t worry what others think of you,” he continues.<br />
“I’m a teacher,” I say, thinking of the tenure review that looms ahead of me like some kind of hydra.<br />
No matter what I check off for it, the tasks only seem to multiply.<br />
Emerson <strong>shr</strong>ugs and returns to his book. His suit splits open at the collar.<br />
I’m found guilty of misinterpreting Dickinson. I must forfeit my “I felt a Funeral in my Brain” lesson<br />
plan and agree to never teach the poem again.<br />
“Don’t feel too badly about it,” Emily tells me later. “They found me guilty of lying under oath. I’m<br />
not allowed to write things with multiple meanings anymore.”<br />
“Don’t they know you’re—um…that you haven’t been writing for a hundred years?”<br />
“My Verse is alive,” she replies and wanders outside to pluck flowers from my garden, pretending<br />
just to sniff them until I’ve glanced away. Then, she stuffs them in her pockets and down her blouse. She<br />
returns bursting with color and life, but I have pretended and continue to pretend to see nothing. The flowers<br />
will grow and bloom again after she’s left, and I understand her fascination. I’ve planted things out there that<br />
aren’t native to this region, things she likely hasn’t seen before—sprawling, heavy-blossomed plants that<br />
weather the hot, humid days with grudging acceptance.<br />
Somewhere, above my head, Emily drops something. The floor creaks under her as she wanders to<br />
and fro, and I think of the silence I will be glad of and dread when she leaves.<br />
Emerson goes before her, perhaps ashamed of his poor attempt at being a lawyer, though it may also<br />
be to escape the mounting requests for interviews, commencement speeches, and book reviews. He looks<br />
panicked when he says his goodbyes, papers stuffed in every pocket, wedged between the bones in his arms,<br />
and beneath his hat. “Good compost, good compost,” Emerson mutters as he hurries down the walk, the<br />
papers spiraling away from him like pale, flightless birds.<br />
Emily lingers only long enough to pluck the last of my toad lilies. When she comes to say her<br />
goodbyes, I can see a brilliant amaryllis blossom through her age-thinned blouse, caged within her ribs. We<br />
shake hands, for she cannot kiss my cheek as she would prefer, and she sets off down the path barefoot,<br />
trailing dried flowers as she goes.<br />
Long after she’s left, I am still finding dried flowers pressed between the pages of all of my books:<br />
papery, delicate flowers that blaze with color even long after they’ve died, spilling from every page I open<br />
until my floors are coated with a soft bed, and no one can hear my footsteps as I cross through my rooms.<br />
7
Moriah Cohen<br />
The Theory of Displacement Suggests<br />
no moonshine can float the dead,<br />
not even in this black pool where I’ve come<br />
with the first woman I loved to bury<br />
lullabies beneath the sod. If light is the soul<br />
confused at having lost the body, then darkness<br />
is an atrium we linger inside, besot with words<br />
like oeillade, sinew, cusp, and pewter. But good<br />
acoustics are no selling point when the party’s over<br />
and the racket of your loneliness begins<br />
to catcall across the room. Life’s milk hails<br />
such delitescent desires; when I toast to exile, quilting<br />
insomnia, I already know that later I will cull<br />
the rosaries writhed from her mouth. Hail Mary,<br />
where do we go when a kiss no longer<br />
sutures the lips of the wound? Tradition claims<br />
our losses with headstones. On every tile, a spirit<br />
waits for a poem to lift it from the mud.<br />
8
Emily Rose Cole<br />
This is my body<br />
Early June. I unspool yellow tongues that carry<br />
the scent of sunlight through your backyard.<br />
I watch you crush dandelions under your pink<br />
Nikes, twist the creamy bells of buttercups<br />
under your baby-soft chin, separate daisies’<br />
long lashes from their gaping, golden eyes.<br />
To you, we’re only weeds. I know what will become<br />
of me when you approach, pluck me up, roll<br />
my body between your thumb and forefinger.<br />
You’ll gnash me open, draw the long thread of spine<br />
through my fluted center. Come. I offer you the honey<br />
of my blood like a sacrament: Child, take, drink.<br />
9
Chauna Craig<br />
Boxcar Willie Doesn’t Live Here Anymore<br />
This train whistle is more a horn. Long and loud and musical—blown into the wind before a storm.<br />
Through town, the heavy mechanical whining wheels, their bass rhythm thumping through my walls, pulsing<br />
up the soles of my feet. I lean into the feeling of sound. How my blood wants to follow and hop an open<br />
car and be taken…somewhere.<br />
The Railway Killer followed a line in the late 90s that took him within yards of a house where I slept. It<br />
wasn’t my house, though my cousin had once lived there. In Arkansas, expect that. My lover lived there.<br />
The horn never blew, the trains just rolled through. Expect that too. That summer I screamed when a<br />
Junebug knocked the screen. I screamed and called for a man because something deep inside me believed: if<br />
men could kill, they could also save.<br />
It was only a Junebug, sometimes called a May beetle. The neighbors had a pit fire, our windows open to the<br />
charred night.<br />
I have wanted to be taken. Silent whistle to a Grim Reaper in the form of a Junebug batting my screen day<br />
and night until the wire starts to unravel.<br />
Present perfect. I have wanted.<br />
In this perfect present, the train whistle blows forever. A loneliness I cannot capture and that cannot capture<br />
me.<br />
Present perfect continuous: you haven’t been listening. And so, I’m tense.<br />
10
Risa Denenberg<br />
It starts with allergies<br />
~1~<br />
Peanuts, tree nuts, eggs and shellfish. Odd leftovers that slosh<br />
over the bowl’s edge and stain linen. The color of snot. Also,<br />
shouldn’t we get smaller as we age, not bigger, and shouldn’t we<br />
disappear at death, not leave a ruined body for others to brawl with?<br />
~2~<br />
You can’t do the tango anymore. Do the hip-break dance. Your sex<br />
drive circles the drain. The big picture squints with presbyopia.<br />
In fact, all senses become unreliable, making you wonder if<br />
your magic mama has forsaken you.<br />
~3~<br />
If I don’t smile, what of it? Tell me a highbrow pun, I’ll give you<br />
a grim grin. I mean, how much loss can I pile on this achy spine<br />
before I divest? I squeeze temples to sequester anxieties. I squeeze<br />
blackheads when I’m bored. What I really want is to be forgiven.<br />
~4~<br />
A fortune for each x-ray, the bargain brokered by the opposite<br />
of hope, the doctor’s cut enormous. Yes, it will cost dear.<br />
As the end draws near, you won’t recall why you have to suffer<br />
so, you will only stare, wide-eyed from your cachectic carcass.<br />
~5~<br />
The potential for demise pops up at every fork. Look, I don’t always<br />
know what point I’m trying to make. I have no idea how you will take<br />
my mordant attitude. You can sign off, or sigh and continue. You’ve<br />
come this far. Let’s walk a bit along the briny beach, even if we are afraid.<br />
11
Jennifer Faylor<br />
Morse Code<br />
The first night I attempt sleep without her<br />
in our bed, the world's noise becomes Morse Code.<br />
Ants tap her name across the dark linoleum,<br />
and boots clunk through ceiling tiles––<br />
they stamp out the word goodbye.<br />
After midnight, crickets gather<br />
in the sweetgum tree outside.<br />
For hours they sing the lyrics<br />
of things I should have said to her.<br />
The express bus brings the graveyard shift<br />
home to their wives, and the engine sputters<br />
the words she would have mumbled in her sleep.<br />
I even hear apples drop in the cold rain<br />
all the way upstate.<br />
Their red noise spells out my love,<br />
but I know the fruit will only roll and rot<br />
in the distant corners of the field.<br />
12
Ruth Foley<br />
Haunted<br />
I turn my head and there is burning—<br />
smoke from the back of the television<br />
like from a drop of oil smeared<br />
on the stove or a slice of potato<br />
left to char on the oven floor. Or snow<br />
lifting from the side grass along<br />
the underpass, whirled into the draft<br />
of a sixteen-wheeler, all the moisture<br />
frozen out of the air so completely<br />
May could be another planet in another<br />
solar system. Sometimes there is<br />
perfume—a blossoming in the flour<br />
canister or in bed at night. Anywhere<br />
there are no flowers. A woman I once<br />
knew swore I was haunted—not my<br />
house, me. She heard other voices<br />
below my own, she said, and once<br />
saw a girl standing behind me,<br />
shaking her head. I didn't ask if<br />
anything came to her, petal soft.<br />
I tell myself it's old damage from<br />
an old wound—a biking accident<br />
in high school or the endless sinus<br />
infections I suffered as a child. I<br />
would—I swear—never lie to you.<br />
13
Julie Gard<br />
Obscura: The Daguerreotype Series<br />
1.<br />
A child in a chair with a bow like a curl, face pocked with the metal’s aging. Double chin and grandmother’s<br />
sharp eyes, dress checked and simple, thin boots tightly laced. I stare for the requisite forty seconds at<br />
splotches of turquoise rot. The child’s parted lips exhale pink iodide. Grave napoleonic girl with pudgy fists<br />
and pinpoint irises, small pillow at her back, small words in her mouth. She breathes them in and looks ahead<br />
like she was told, her gaze blind, preternaturally fixed, as she seeks approval across time.<br />
2.<br />
Margaret Ann Pence was told not to close her eyes and like everything, she took those words seriously.<br />
Margaret rarely said what she thought, for her mind’s directness often shocked her and she feared its effect<br />
on a member of her family with a weak heart. Her face waits for lines in this picture. She is certainly a virgin,<br />
laced up sleeve to wrist. Only fingertips emerge from black natting. Open eyes escape, and closed mouth.<br />
This one girl in one moment is only sixteen. Forgive her for what she won’t say. It is all she has.<br />
3.<br />
If he could, this man would lecture me kindly on what I do not know and on what I know better than he.<br />
There is little that progress cannot teach us, he’d intone. Women are a certain thing, a certain way. His<br />
spectacles, small and wire, reveal my liberation, in which he partway believes.<br />
What he does not see: the discoloration of his face framed with purple, then blue burst of chemical flower.<br />
His eyes untouched and shining from the center, beard trimmed but feral. The humanity in him stitched from<br />
something wild.<br />
From his jacket an object emerges, a blankness or a book. It’s his auricle pulsing forth, the book he has<br />
written, the one that contains all the rules of his life and the love who was lost down river. She had never<br />
learned to swim, or swam too well.<br />
4.<br />
You are iconic with globed eyes and eggshell skin, yet as I write it you refuse the designation. I try to hold<br />
your face but my eyes are drawn down to one small hand in black glove, in shadow, and another firm and<br />
naked on the arm of the chair. A strong hand and a masculine face beneath white wimple, blank halo. The<br />
usual pink mercurial glow and a robe like a judge’s: silk, tassled, obscure. You weigh knowledge in one hand<br />
and doubt in the other, what you saw and could not see. Two like quantities pressing on opposite hands.<br />
5.<br />
I name them lovers, that sort of brother. They hide from the camera how they are connected, and yet their<br />
jackets touch. The young man is hale in his pinstriped suit, wild cowlick above careful part. The elder recedes<br />
in his pale three-piece: sallow cheeks, trim moustache, knowing droop to left eye. Early pictures were mirror<br />
opposites. Silence became clatter as the longing ghosts moved in next door.<br />
14
6.<br />
I would read every page of the book in your hand if I could open it. The photograph captures the spine and<br />
the glut of the hardback’s gilding, a sliver of page as careful and modest as the point of your white throat.<br />
You sit rigidly while your mind composes a decades-long poem to God. Specks of changed metal descend on<br />
your bookish cell. You ask questions regarding salvation, but I have no answers and merely take notes:<br />
transcendent bibliophile, alchemical, oddly dressed.<br />
7.<br />
A girl my daughter’s age, gypsy, stunning, utterly alert. Rings etched onto right-hand fingers reveal her early<br />
marriage to beauty and reckless dancing. A child of the bleak Midwest defies her dutiful bloodline, takes to<br />
wandering and asymmetrical curls. Wry lip closes over a mouthful. They have caught her for one minute,<br />
before her mind once again changes. Through her life she stores them up, the revelations, the heaven in hell.<br />
I am not sure who she tells. A playmate, husband, river, aunt, dying elm tree, mouthful of jam.<br />
8.<br />
A boy shot from a distance clutches his scroll of plans. Overwhelmed by the frame, he nonetheless looks on<br />
boldly from beneath a grey felt derby. The room around him radiates hairline cracks. His face is the young<br />
end of handsome behind scratched glass and encircled by foil. The upper edge of his photograph is etched<br />
and dark, yellow film peeled. Though trapped, he is alive. The exhibition slips from its place.<br />
9.<br />
I have broken loose from my case. You toss me downriver like a lucky bottle and the glass green message I<br />
carry: these bonnets are damned uncomfortable, and without the love of God I’d never get through a day in<br />
one.<br />
Don’t doubt a minute that my own heart hurt as Penelope walked along the bank searching for a proper<br />
switch. And as I struck her with it, I felt the fire myself: a punishment for us both. Better this now, I<br />
whispered, than for eternity. Feel your sharp sin now so there is time for repentance, and after that cake.<br />
She didn’t go hungry. I fed my children no matter what they did. I would give it to them from my own<br />
mouth, my own wrist. You doubt, you question, as if you are not brutal. You chew the bird one century after<br />
I snapped its neck.<br />
10.<br />
The words I contain are of sadness, not finery. If you watch long enough I will open my mouth and stain my<br />
dress with my secret. What I have to say is only what you are learning. I find freedom as any woman does:<br />
find, lose, find, lose, find in losing and so on. Black lace traps the skin. I beg you, go on with your day.<br />
______________________________________________________________<br />
Previous publication, with copyright returning to author:<br />
Obscura: The Daguerreotype Series, chapbook. Finishing Line Press, Georgetown, KY, 2007.<br />
15
Sara Ghoshal<br />
Heavy Air<br />
For Ron Padgett<br />
I.<br />
It hangs. As you walk out, you encounter a force so great it must be alien. It must shoot spaceships at you<br />
because you can’t walk, you can’t run, you can’t make it to the suburban jungle you’re supposed to be saving.<br />
You can only sit where you are and contemplate how it could possibly be so full.<br />
II.<br />
When it comes spewing forth, spit gets on my forehead. I think a drop landed on an eyelash. He is angry.<br />
Tired. Exhausted from the repetition and his feet drag hard enough that they don’t stir anything up at all.<br />
They just add to the dust, to the unfounded specimens crawling toward the crack in the bathroom wall.<br />
III.<br />
Someone once told me it’s a sign of sun poisoning if you get chills while laying out. If this is true, then I have<br />
been poisoned since the ‘90s, reveling in the chill that comes with a soft breeze on Belmar with my novel and<br />
my absolutely unwavering belief that any place with sand counts as vacation.<br />
IV.<br />
I am not serious enough. The most shocking word I use is fuck. I just can’t see myself using the word<br />
menstrual in a poem. It seems dirtier, less correct than fuck. It seems like it would stomp on fuck, it would<br />
send fuck to the butcher, it would hang on to fuck’s neck like a monkey.<br />
V.<br />
Two weeks ago, that bonsai tree was so bright green I thought I could eat its leaves and juices would come<br />
fresh out and they would taste like lime. It was shining, waiting for Buddha. Then the leaves started sinking<br />
hard, drooping with the weight, clipping themselves off with wet snaps. Today, it recovers.<br />
VI.<br />
Her jealousy stares at life unflinchingly, expecting that which is not hers, wanting that which should be hers,<br />
constantly miserable, constantly looking around the corner, up the hill and down the street to the place she<br />
used to want but now just wants to want. Red dresses run past her in haste and she sits on a metal bench,<br />
defeated.<br />
VII.<br />
There are at least 100 steps to our bench and it smells like punk rock in here. Salty and unequal. I am unable<br />
to make it past, unable to propel myself forward with simple movements. I can only remember the words to<br />
the song. I’m not a cool guy anymore.<br />
VIII.<br />
He crouches in dirty jeans – really dirty jeans with actual dirt on them, streaked, not just worn a few days in a<br />
row, for hours, meticulous. A light sits across from him, too bright for the daylight but just fine up here in<br />
the land of insulation and lost boxes of naked Barbie dolls and rolled up carpets brought home from college<br />
and salvage from the storm. He drinks more water than anyone I know.<br />
IX.<br />
The words hang there, stuck in a spider’s web, sitting on invisibility. “You are not him and you never will<br />
be.” But I am me, better than him, I have more money than the him that is not really him but is really the<br />
him that used to be me. And my mother said I have more smarts.<br />
16
X.<br />
We’re all tired. And in the winter, when we are scraping windshields, when we are adding ten extra minutes to<br />
the morning routine to bundle up (hatscarfglovescoathood), when we are watching it come down in blankets<br />
and throw pillows and soggy circles that only glitter for a moment, when we are picking dead leaves off of<br />
beloved, named plants, when human interaction is severely cut, seriously hampered, and the streets are quiet<br />
with the buzz of the efficient walker, we will dream of being this tired again, of burnt toes and early morning<br />
runs. We’ll dream of when it hurts to breathe.<br />
17
Derek Graf<br />
In the Rendaku Forest<br />
Leave home gray animal, you wild bright—hold this song until you burn: gray like the branches we walk on,<br />
our breath brushes through the low dim of dawning. Your violet iris bruising under sky-lids lidded by frost: in<br />
this river all we know is violence—crowing vigils, united in crimson we moon-glow: this fabric clasped with<br />
your pale arms clots the wind tonight; my psalm-body mutters under lines of driftwood black unlike the<br />
breath of rivers—heretical, always descending at hills beyond. Distant barrows dome dusk into curves of<br />
needled trees: with the night turning to stone, our palms are where we cannot speak of the stars magnetic and<br />
heavy with blood.<br />
18
KT Gutting<br />
Arachnid, In Allegory<br />
There is no fire in this cave, no light.<br />
The orbweaver who lives here rakes shells<br />
and exoskeletons out with the tide every night<br />
by her angular legs, through determination,<br />
through damned-if-she-does, through don’t,<br />
to smack against the horizon. And they will<br />
strike it, that illusory sharpness, and split cleanly<br />
into sun or ocean depth to still. Yet the orbweaver,<br />
scraping her cave faithfully of bone, remains<br />
in motion, silently spinning her moonless hole—<br />
some web in the dark, a letting cold, and for this<br />
that’s caught, there is no other word but no.<br />
19
Sara Henning<br />
Pillow Talk<br />
It’s only boys kindling ball rockets. Neighborhood boys burning their fingers on taut-strung bangers. All you’ll say—though<br />
I’m thinking, will the gun shots barrage the air all evening? Though I’m thinking, will they brocade what’s volatile into the<br />
air at dusk? Show me boys crushing fallout duds into soil, how they curse while praying for a double break to<br />
ease the loss. Show me the one holding the Roman candle too long, palm enthralled by the cardboard-choked<br />
clay seal, the flame swathing the pyrotechnic star, and everything torched careening from the tube like a<br />
bullet. Hush now, you’re saying, but it’s the ghost of the boy’s hand I won’t stop thinking of, the blast’s<br />
reverberation, his cry beveling against the bedroom’s heat-flecked walls. Wait for the bells, you’re saying, as<br />
though they’ll helix through the sepia stillness of morning from the Church across the boulevard, but I’m<br />
thinking of the mother replaying her son’s finger shorn, stitched and abandoned by the cosmos. Sleep now,<br />
you’re saying, but you’re on top of me. Tell me no one is dying with ringing in his chest, I’m whispering, I want to<br />
scream, but you’re indicting me with your body, not your words. So I’m telling myself, the boys are only holding<br />
the lifting charge of their transcendence against each other. I’m crying, for anyone who can hear, the boys misfiring are<br />
turning into men.<br />
20
Rae Hoffman<br />
Babel<br />
For Ben<br />
Show me your scarecrows, your sidewalk hieroglyphics. Show me your funeral procession, your seven-gun<br />
salute, your painted eyes, your afternoon flutes. Show me your blank pages, I’ll touch them, I’ll stuff them. I’ll<br />
change them. I’ll leave them. Show me your red lines, your revisions, your clean cuts, and last minute<br />
indecisions. Show me your antechambers, your drywall, your railings, your <strong>shr</strong>ill birdcall. I want to fill your<br />
mouth with crescent moons, white lilies, and civil war pantoums. I want your histories, your rebirths, your<br />
crystal chandeliers. Show me your minute hand, your chromosomes, your midnights. Show me your<br />
Redwoods, your crisp collars, your typhoons, your stone and mortars. I’m falling apart. The world is falling<br />
through me. I’m a big empty box. Point me in any direction. Tie my hands together. I’ll walk up your granite<br />
stairs, I’ll climb on your roof and howl at the rolling fields until someone, anyone calls back.<br />
21
Jennifer Jackson Berry<br />
Fat Girl at Weight Watchers Meeting<br />
I’m supposed to tell<br />
everyone I’m dieting<br />
& give away pants<br />
as they get too big.<br />
They say if you feel bad<br />
about your loss, go to<br />
a grocery store, pick up a bag<br />
of sugar, of flour, 10 lbs.—<br />
that’s what you used<br />
to carry around your middle.<br />
We clap for lost quarters<br />
of pounds. This is the first time<br />
I’ve lost more than sticks<br />
of butter. When I slip,<br />
when I cheat, I try<br />
to imagine the alternatives.<br />
But I fear the canula—<br />
that lipo tool, long<br />
like a princess’s wand.<br />
The doctor thrusts in & out<br />
just under the skin<br />
like fast sex & the sucking<br />
in like a little girl’s gasp<br />
when she sees a prince.<br />
22
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins<br />
National Dream Share Day<br />
I go up to the woman with the green coat<br />
on the subway and tell her about my dream.<br />
You were there, I say. It was the opposite<br />
of a nightmare. There were popsicles.<br />
She tells me about her brother rolling<br />
away from her in a gigantic birdcage, down<br />
and down a grassy hill, until he disappeared<br />
and was never seen again. I overhear two<br />
Japanese men outside a bakery crying about<br />
their mothers. In the distance, an elderly man<br />
flails his arms in front of a crowd of people.<br />
The chipmunk was nine feet tall. He had<br />
Shaquille O'Neal's face. Tomorrow morning<br />
we will not make eye contact. I think<br />
of touching her green coat. I want to ask<br />
about her brother. I never do.<br />
23
Mark Allen Jenkins<br />
Removing Hurricane Debris<br />
When last August hurled<br />
the first hurricane of the season our way, I laughed<br />
at your use of packing tape to secure<br />
glass windows in your rented house,<br />
Its only ability to not peel off glass.<br />
It’s what the locals did to prepare<br />
for a hurricane. Fill their gas tank, run<br />
to the store for beer, ice, Zapp’s potato chips, anything<br />
they could grill. Outsiders, we compare it to tailgating.<br />
I’m unsure what you were protecting- a bathroom<br />
door whose antique knob turned then broke, stubby<br />
florescent lights, rental offwhite shag<br />
carpet that absorbed Natural Light. A bike, used<br />
to ride to campus once in a harrowing, near<br />
injury over profound experience. A backyard<br />
no mower ever tamed.<br />
I try not to think of my<br />
apartment down the street- putting off<br />
packing, emptying, until the last<br />
minute all of it, plates, a freezer<br />
full of chicken, popsicles, Jim Beam.<br />
A packing feels like a retreat, an army<br />
of me pushed too far south, Louisianan<br />
Gulf Coast ate away at my shoes and car.<br />
The only thing left was to head west to Texas,<br />
leave the mildewed concrete behind.<br />
As I slowly make my way<br />
up your house’s windowpanes, each swath<br />
of tape, glue, and gel, removes traces of your<br />
short time here, but like my thumb, indented<br />
where it extended the scraper’s blade, each future<br />
resident will notice small traces that can’t be scraped away.<br />
24
Les Kay<br />
Between bouts of insomnia<br />
we munch microwave popcorn as<br />
New York, Washington, Los Angeles,<br />
Sydney, Tokyo, Moscow, Paris,<br />
and London all simultaneously<br />
explode beneath mint-green lasers,<br />
and mankind slowly resists<br />
enslavement to extraterrestrials<br />
that look almost exactly like us;<br />
we sip corn-syrup-rich generic soda<br />
as a hitherto unknown virus<br />
slips through spider monkey cages,<br />
breaking the underfunded lab’s<br />
overly lax quarantine procedures<br />
before spreading faster than meme<br />
to every metropolis, every shopping mall.<br />
All night disbelief is ghost,<br />
a gentle coo dismissed as wind—<br />
the faintest clink of chain and iron.<br />
Suspension lasts until daybreak<br />
when bright-winged cardinals whistle<br />
for clay-colored mates, and you<br />
turn again to the same damn song:<br />
crosswords, cover letters, résumés.<br />
25
Jill Khoury<br />
The Eye Surgeon<br />
I do not wish<br />
my eyes symmetrical<br />
I would not trade<br />
the almost-sight of<br />
finch, jay, cardianal<br />
for a pixilated<br />
viewfinder<br />
*<br />
We do this procedure all the time on children<br />
If you were four years old we would just get it over with<br />
*<br />
The horizon is<br />
horizontal; the<br />
horizon is<br />
vertical<br />
*<br />
I should<br />
just<br />
do you<br />
and get it<br />
over with<br />
*<br />
They begin<br />
decompression<br />
*<br />
To them<br />
I am a projection<br />
I am so<br />
many deep<br />
I will be so<br />
many wide<br />
so many<br />
high<br />
*<br />
26
I enter<br />
prairie<br />
Graze<br />
bluestem<br />
with my<br />
fingertips<br />
27
Erin Koehler<br />
Identifying the Ruby-throated Hummingbird<br />
I spent my twentieth summer thinking about beardtongue<br />
& the benign polyp in my mother’s colon.<br />
I diagnosed the problem: eating<br />
too much of her father’s rhubarb without<br />
any sugar. It wasn’t diabetes that snapped his heart—<br />
the dark jewels on his skin were to blame. The black<br />
masses growing like when I was thirteen & fed<br />
my Venus flytraps dead pool insects. Their bodies<br />
slow-wilted, soft & the flies came at last<br />
to the mold-tomb bodies of chlorinated<br />
nectar. It was my mother who found him & folded<br />
his foxglove eyelids—<br />
& when her children went to college, she still drank<br />
on her own, a gallon of milk a week.<br />
28
Rachel Lake<br />
Property<br />
Browns Mills, NJ<br />
This is not the house where my brother almost shot<br />
himself, but missed. The crumbling hole in drywall<br />
hasn’t committed itself to the top of the staircase<br />
that leads into the basement, which stoops<br />
like a dislocated shoulder. This place is old, but<br />
in a different way, like a stained hand-me-down<br />
sweater. There is no well here and the faucet<br />
doesn’t smell like eggs, but there is a dirt road,<br />
even now, after I’ve come back to clean the house<br />
for new tenants. There is dog piss on the walls,<br />
poison ivy in sly trails beneath the bishop’s weed<br />
and woodruff. The woods opposite the house<br />
are filled with gypsy moth caterpillars. I remember<br />
raiding their white-knit nests and letting their small<br />
flax-furred bodies envelop my hand like bark<br />
until I couldn’t stand the itch—<br />
their thousand legs—and I dropped them. I’ve seen<br />
the hunger they inflict, forests stripped and leafless,<br />
and it’s almost enough to persuade me to close<br />
my heel over their soft bodies, but I stop.<br />
The proportion feels cruel, the orange diamonds<br />
on their backs too perfectly aligned. I don’t have<br />
the nerve to love that way. Years ago, my brother<br />
flew out the front door. His father swung<br />
and missed, cuffed the doorjamb with the side<br />
of his fist. Thrown across the grass and shaking,<br />
my brother covered his face with his hands<br />
and cried.<br />
29
Kristin LaTour<br />
After the Sewol Sank, 2014<br />
There are empty spaces in the rooms<br />
our children are not crowded into, no cries.<br />
We stand on the beach and call their<br />
names into the wind, but they are just<br />
carried back to us, transparent. We<br />
are not grateful for imagination and<br />
experience. The water is cold. Underneath<br />
the surface is dark. The boats pump air<br />
into the cavities to keep the ferry afloat.<br />
They are like lungs. The ferry is a shark.<br />
One mother asks, see, this child, round<br />
faced, almond eyes, laughing? She loved<br />
goats and sparklers. Another shows her child<br />
dancing in a loop, hula hoop around his waist.<br />
Their bodies are now cradled by arms that weep<br />
seawater when they bring them above.<br />
They are <strong>shr</strong>ouded in a tent, then blankets.<br />
We are told their fingers are broken.<br />
How hard they tried to climb out, how<br />
metal doesn’t care about tendons and bone.<br />
The searchers are blind, reach forward<br />
in the darkness for softness. The water is cold.<br />
Underneath the surface is dark. There is<br />
nothing between them and our daughters’ hair<br />
flowing black, the jelly of our sons’ eyes, the supple<br />
breast or curve of a knee. We try to be thankful<br />
for touch and connection, that fingers can feel.<br />
They are <strong>shr</strong>ouded in a bag, the a tent, then blankets,<br />
then caskets. We are asked to look at their hands<br />
and ankles, find marks that show they belong<br />
to someone. We do not see their faces.<br />
We want to be thankful for their youth<br />
the soft breath of sleep we watched when<br />
they were just born. We want to be thankful<br />
that they were together in the end, embracing<br />
each other until—<br />
The monks continue praying, eyes closed, facing<br />
the sea, silent and wrapped in orange cloaks. Mourners’<br />
candles are shielded from the wind by cups. Who shielded<br />
our children from the water? Who will shield us<br />
as we walk before their two hundred portraits, the scent<br />
of lilies perfuming our grief?<br />
30
M. Mack<br />
To see<br />
the thing<br />
To make the shadow of the thing look like the thing, you must trick the light. I<br />
contort my fingers against pavement, and the shadow waves. My middle finger<br />
appears there as thumb, my fingers stretch away and then into familiar lines.<br />
On a sidewalk at night, in the space between two streetlamps, there are always<br />
two of me. I follow myself, uneasy. On a bright afternoon, after making a hand<br />
from my hand, when I approach a double-paned door, I have a double I can see.<br />
31
Sarah Miller Freehauf<br />
Melancholia Blinks<br />
The morning of the massacre<br />
I found two of them. Babies.<br />
Likely born within minutes<br />
of one another. But I couldn’t<br />
ask their mother. She stood dumb,<br />
blinkless. On the edge of concrete.<br />
Both of their bodies rose and fell.<br />
With a slam of the screen door<br />
Daniel somehow picked them<br />
both up. No bleeting.<br />
Likely bleeding.<br />
I sat upstairs in squares of sun. Waiting for their charcoal to rest.<br />
The lambing-time. The hard hours.<br />
Later I found them. Dry. One<br />
with her head facing sun. Half-yelling<br />
eyes not old enough. He curled as<br />
tightly as when he fell. Head tucked.<br />
Isn’t that how it is? Head up, head down,<br />
death. No matter the matter.<br />
I used a silver kitchen spoon to dig their graves.<br />
A spoon. Because they were so very small.<br />
I threw it away and vowed no food that day.<br />
Later, I saw him eating animal off a bone.<br />
We do that, as humans. Spoon-dig graves<br />
eat our own after. In fellowship.<br />
In their grave now. Head up, head down.<br />
A burnt offering for the Midwestern haze.<br />
I can see their blood pigment to black.<br />
Carbon bones gone soft. Blood gone hard.<br />
How long does this all take?<br />
Soft hearts, always blink.<br />
32
T.A. Noonan<br />
Wolf Pelt: $50<br />
The huntsman drew off the wolf’s skin and went home with it…<br />
He’s outside because he smells; the rot clings years later. I hear he bathed him in baby shampoo. I hear he<br />
stays in the greenhouse because it didn’t work. Today, he rests in a flowerbox, not unlike all those red hoods<br />
in my bottom drawer. But he is fur. Whiskers smoothed, nose leathered and glossless. One socket pinched<br />
like a flattened seed. One open, staring at his split belly. Socket wide, shadowed. There’s something in there.<br />
Ghost of jaw. Fold of muzzle. A single paw jutting up and out, the better to hug me with. I can’t smell him<br />
from here, though. What I smell is coffee. I imagine he could smell the same—earth made thinner, lighter<br />
with milk. He would not see the sill above the sink as I do. The way winter sun cuts bottles into green, amber.<br />
And that skull, painted with devils and flowers, an offering to some unknown god. I wonder if he would put<br />
it on if he could. It would give me something to turn to the door. He would want the rest of his bones, too. I<br />
wonder what he thinks of me. If he knows I would trade skins with him now—just once—to slink out of this<br />
home, these woods. To smell skunk musk, touch my nose to bones. I wouldn’t smell them, though. They<br />
don’t have a scent. It’s what happens when something is finally clean.<br />
33
Al Ortolani<br />
Steam Engine 1023<br />
Your daughters dig out the sledand lean it inside the garage, readied<br />
for the overpass at Schlanger Park.<br />
Lamp lit windows hang against<br />
the house like flat screen TV’s.<br />
By nightfall, goose feathers loosen<br />
from the clouds and drift in the gray streets.<br />
You step out to the porch and breathe woodsmoke from a neighbor's chimney,<br />
and in the taste of cold<br />
you know today's disappearing, your memories<br />
sculptured in snow. Tomorrow,<br />
a girl with a red scarf flies down the overpass, her steel runners singing, cutting<br />
towards the chain link. For years<br />
the old locomotive has waited<br />
at the bottom of the hill<br />
for the fastest sleds, daughters like yours<br />
pumping their fists.<br />
34
Carla Panciera<br />
A Synonym for Flock is Mob<br />
The absent woolclasser, gun-shearer, the worldon-holiday<br />
feel of this hillside, leave the broomie bored.<br />
Amidst a flock of Dorset coveting their belly wool,<br />
he flinches again at visions of Arcadia.<br />
Please, God, don’t let that be the end result<br />
of meatless Fridays and Confession.<br />
Sheep keep their backs to him, shoot marbles<br />
out their asses and amass, a stinking cumulus, at the shed door.<br />
Whale-eyed, they don’t need to turn their heads<br />
to see him, but he knows they’re watching.<br />
The broken-mouthed, the suckers, shift on devil-hooves.<br />
They’re earmarked, too, against their god’s perfection.<br />
To think this is the paradise of knitters, of those redeemed<br />
by the Easter-cheery iconography of lambs.<br />
The world is delusion’s convert, replete with fairy tale lovers<br />
and those who believe that men rule beasts –<br />
a place where no one knows that sheep never forget a face.<br />
And why, he might ask the human conquerors, is that?<br />
To mark us, beards and all, of course, to drag data stores<br />
to their heft for future use we can’t divine.<br />
Where is the shepherd when he’s needed? The skulking dog?<br />
The butcher? The broomie remembers a public speaking trick –<br />
imagines a flock of poodles, pom pom tails, wool bracelets,<br />
the Continental clips of Westminster. He laughs.<br />
A cull ewe stomps her leg. Choreographed, pre-ordained,<br />
cud chewing halts. They’re staring now, those backsides.<br />
Sun slits barn boards. Fibers flit through razor shafts.<br />
Wind tries the latches, stirs the beasts.<br />
The hills resound with bleats, an ascendancy of code.<br />
Once the first sheep turns, it won’t be long.<br />
Brandishing his broom he wonders: Can I ape a wolf bark?<br />
Can I sweat the stench of bear?<br />
35
Christopher Petruccelli<br />
End of Days<br />
after Terrance Hayes’ “Origin of the Days”<br />
Sunday: the shine of stars is only turbulence,<br />
sunsets and rises redden with dust and grit.<br />
Fishermen watch the sun<br />
dip and streak the sky with cerise.<br />
At the end of the day,<br />
clouds are rosewood, and the fishermen’s<br />
families leave notes behind that read,<br />
Gone indefinitely.<br />
Monday: the moon is a single man in a dark room<br />
alone at night. He pulls the tides<br />
close to his face and smells the fractioned sea,<br />
salt hardly reaching his nose.<br />
The moon drowns out the Monday<br />
groan, sinking into the Seine.<br />
Tuesday: Mars appears,<br />
a fleck of rust in the night sky<br />
and grows to the size of a red hot.<br />
We see explosions from its surface<br />
like Wells predicted. The worst things will come<br />
in pairs—heat rays, black smoke.<br />
Wednesday: we are all busy little bees,<br />
Hermes is tired. He drops his caduceus<br />
in the middle of the street and says,<br />
Fuck it. Then, it’s nothing but runs on banks<br />
and inflation. The day ends with men<br />
trading stones for thistles.<br />
Thursday: the oak trees blaze<br />
from lightning strikes. Soot rests on burnt<br />
crowns, and the air smells like the coffee<br />
morning began with.<br />
Friday: The fishermen return to empty beds<br />
and packed tables, cook fatal clumps<br />
of strangely hominid ocean dwellers.<br />
Some have reservations, others don’t.<br />
All purse their lips as salt<br />
wrenches tongue.<br />
36
Saturday: We put out lawn chairs, watch<br />
Pestilence eat rotten apples as the other<br />
horsemen round the corner. The riders’<br />
snapping joints set the rhythm<br />
our world ends to—a march<br />
almost like a samba.<br />
37
Kate Soules<br />
The Moon Hanger<br />
Where the sun releases its final arcs<br />
and returns borrowed shadows to the depths<br />
(that is night)<br />
the moon hanger stretches forth.<br />
Waking from a moment<br />
slightly hunched with <strong>shr</strong>iveled hair<br />
he smells the night and<br />
steals towards the deep.<br />
He trails his twine behind.<br />
Nimbly he slides into the sea,<br />
becomes graceful in his descent<br />
to haul the moon to the surface.<br />
Latching twine to time he tugs the orb,<br />
hoists the heaviness of luminescence.<br />
He climbs the ladder in the stars<br />
the bulky bulb banging below<br />
until he comes to the last rung,<br />
the resting place of the moon.<br />
Here he pauses to gather strength<br />
until he can lift the final weight.<br />
38
Letitia Trent<br />
You, and You<br />
Thanks you for taking leave<br />
of me, if just<br />
for ten minutes,<br />
your black thread of static<br />
running through my forecasts,<br />
my films playing<br />
as I would have liked them:<br />
my talk slipping like<br />
honey from a hot spoon<br />
and an elegant settle<br />
into gestures like lines<br />
around a body.<br />
It didn't happen that way,<br />
but thank you<br />
for taking leave<br />
for a day, for two. In such<br />
permanent, purposeful<br />
absence, the mind<br />
insists—seal the thought-lid.<br />
Stop this. My dentist,<br />
when I came to him holding<br />
my cheek, said,<br />
his scraping hook<br />
against my gum,<br />
you cannot possibly<br />
feel this anymore.<br />
I removed the nerve, he said,<br />
turning up his soap opera.<br />
There's no there to hurt now.<br />
39
Letitia Trent<br />
Little Love Poem<br />
You move like a scarf<br />
across a throat you<br />
across a room or eye<br />
your hand tea-cupped<br />
around your chin<br />
Help me not to tell<br />
the same story<br />
over and over knowing<br />
it's pushing<br />
forward the apologia: why<br />
I would not let you<br />
touch me<br />
then the apex:<br />
how you drove us gently<br />
off the ice and into the angel<br />
breast: That's it:<br />
you move like ice<br />
across the road<br />
each day I drive<br />
denouement: in the<br />
embalming cold since<br />
I have been alone<br />
40
Donna Vorreyer<br />
Codependent<br />
A quick flick of the wrist, a smirk to hush<br />
a scream – this is how it all begins<br />
since we are tuned to violence. The lush<br />
strumming of classical guitars turns<br />
into the hyperactive pounding of bass<br />
in heavy metal diatribes. Slam dance<br />
just for two. Circle pit with no escape.<br />
Then the power ballad swells second chance,<br />
and it’s Cusack with a boom box outside<br />
my window and I can’t resist. Some say<br />
music can soothe a beast, and who am I<br />
to say they’re wrong? I wait another day,<br />
each breath a grace note. You, warped xylophone,<br />
me, cracked reed. We have never sung alone.<br />
41
Kami Westhoff<br />
Release<br />
The phone call about his release<br />
enters her ear like a letter<br />
opener. It’s unlikely he will cause<br />
you any more grief, she is told, but<br />
we want to be on safe side.<br />
Their daughter, only a month into walking,<br />
toddles into the gate at the top of the stairs.<br />
It quivers, and she worries about its installation.<br />
She’d never before held a drill, and its vibration<br />
settled in her throat like a lie.<br />
She thanks the man<br />
on the phone, and promises,<br />
at his insistence, caution. She imagines<br />
his head as two dots, a triangle, an semi-circle,<br />
arms and legs and body as simple<br />
as sticks. If he were real, flesh and shit<br />
and guts and bone, he would at least let slip<br />
a tone of defeat, regret, some hint<br />
of the pity one feels when it watches<br />
a creature, whatever its kind,<br />
drag itself roadside.<br />
The baby shakes the gate’s railing,<br />
her smile exposes gums erupting<br />
with bone. It is almost time for her dinner:<br />
mashed avocado, blueberries, cheese cubed<br />
smaller than necessary. Then her bath<br />
where the yellow duck tests the temperature<br />
and promises Okay. She lifts her, hushes<br />
her fussing before it begins. Its legs tighten<br />
around her hip as its chest twists away, back<br />
in an arch toward the gate.<br />
42
Kami Westhoff<br />
Early Warning<br />
On a fog-choked morning, they meet. He is taller<br />
than she expected, curls the color of coffee<br />
deflated from the damp. She has seen him before,<br />
bent in a hover over the lifted hood of a broke down,<br />
back arced, shoulders winged by the buck<br />
of a hay bale.<br />
He reaches out his hand to hers,<br />
exposes a nub where his pointer finger<br />
once was. She accepts his hand,<br />
feels its abbreviation against her line<br />
of fate. Hazards of country life, he explains,<br />
lifts his hand to her cheek. His touch<br />
zaps her skin electric for hours.<br />
In two weeks, she will meet his family. His mother’s<br />
eyes and smile will greet her in discordant<br />
hemispheres. His sister will approach, each step<br />
as cautious as a cow. His father will sink<br />
the knife into the meat, compliment his wife<br />
on how easily it releases from the bone.<br />
43
Megan Willoughby<br />
Babylon<br />
“When we first broke into that forbidden box in the other dimension,<br />
we knew we had discovered something as surprising and powerful<br />
as the New World when Columbus came stumbling onto it.”<br />
—Ken Kesey<br />
1<br />
i wanted to ask you how it felt—my fingers against your lips,<br />
the wafer on your tongue, a gift.<br />
2<br />
we climb the stairs to the bell tower,<br />
where the old piano lies tuneless.<br />
she keys the minor chords, their melody<br />
taut like flesh—i listen to the space between<br />
notes, exposed like snapped wires.<br />
3<br />
she says it’s bold to love a girl – eyes glow like cathedrals –<br />
makes it feel like your love halfway exists.<br />
i say her music is beautiful, she asks:<br />
do you know the pressure it takes<br />
to make diamonds?–turns like a bitch<br />
driven to bite—chews<br />
my tongue like canvas,<br />
keeps the tatters as trophies.<br />
4<br />
We are holy as fire—I could burn you<br />
with these notes, leave<br />
proof hanging on the piano<br />
like rosary beads.<br />
44
Sarah Ann Winn<br />
Theater of March<br />
Brown stage curtains remain closed.<br />
If you don't brave the bluest<br />
of the bruised clouds, you might miss<br />
the burst through when the buds slip<br />
their hands through the sleeves of twigs —<br />
some still brown mittened. some green.<br />
Soon the birds — the shyest ones —<br />
arrive with a kind of spring,<br />
if not one you remember.<br />
Cue: whiteout, paper birches<br />
unpeel, reveal stage notes carved<br />
deep, unweathered. Inserted<br />
in your program, a card requests<br />
a small donation — maybe<br />
a grape hyacinth, maybe<br />
a branch of pussy willows.<br />
The brashest forsythia.<br />
A bracing of melt. Check one.<br />
Leave it in the jar by the door.<br />
Right now, there’s only staging.<br />
Each set layer moves offstage.<br />
First, snowbanks part to reveal<br />
white-lit mountains, falling away<br />
blue silhouetted skyline.<br />
Redbuds approach on tracks upstage<br />
to down, advancing towards<br />
the audience — through the seats,<br />
the lobby, the parking lot,<br />
out to a clearing, a green<br />
place, applause in a field full of fiddleheads.<br />
45
CONTRIBUTORS<br />
Mandi Cook: Photography is how I fuse my digital interests with my traditional skills. When I began taking<br />
portraits, I wanted the photos to speak loudly. Art must have a soul - I believe our spirits are older and larger than<br />
our limited physical being. Our artistic influences should be larger than ourselves, and draw from an inner tenacity<br />
for life, not just the external world around us. View more of my work here: http://dr34mcrush3r.deviantart.com/<br />
Vinita Agrawal is a Mumbai based, award winning writer and poet. Her poems have appeared in Asiancha,<br />
Constellations, The Fox Chase Review, Pea River Journal, Open Road Review, and Mandala among others. She was<br />
nominated for the Best of the Net Awards 2011, awarded a prize in the Wordweavers Contest 2013 and is the author<br />
of Words Not Spoken. She has a Masters in Political Science with a gold medal and is a full time writer.<br />
Amy Ash is the author of a chapbook, Acme Book of Love (Main Street Rag). Her first full-length collection The<br />
Open Mouth of the Vase (winner of the 2013 Cider Press Review Book Award) is forthcoming in 2015.<br />
Callista Buchen is the author of the chapbooks The Bloody Planet (forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press) and<br />
Double-Mouthed (forthcoming from dancing girl press). Her work has appeared in Arsenic Lobster, Blue Mesa<br />
Review, DIAGRAM, and many other journals.<br />
Lisa Marie Bastile is the founding editor of Luna Luna. She is the author of APOCRYPHAL (Noctuary Press):<br />
a holy, girly, neurotic text obsessed with its own secret world. Her poetry and other work is found in Best American<br />
Poetry, PANK, The Nervous Breakdown, Tin House, Prick of the Spindle and other publications. An MFA recipient<br />
of The New School in NYC, she runs DIORAMA, an intimate literary/music salon.<br />
A.M. Brant’s poems have appeared in Ninth Letter, Harpur Palate, Bellevue Literary Review, and elsewhere. She<br />
lives in Pittsburgh.<br />
Emily Cabettini is a fiction writer originally from Batavia, IL and received her Ph.D. from the University of<br />
Louisiana at Lafayette. Her fiction has most recently appeared in Noctua Review, and her critical work on Doctor<br />
Who is upcoming in Neil Gaiman in the Twenty-First Century (McFarland, forthcoming). She currently lives in<br />
Maryland.<br />
Moriah Cohen’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Hoot: A Mini Literary<br />
Magazine on a Postcard, Baltimore Review, and Narrative where she was runner-up in this year’s “30 Below”<br />
contest. She received her MFA from Rutgers University’s Newark Campus. Currently, she teaches at Ramapo<br />
College.<br />
Emily Rose Cole is a writer, folksinger, and MFA candidate in poetry at Southern Illinois University Carbondale.<br />
Her debut solo album, “I Wanna Know,” was released in May of 2012 and is available on iTunes and Amazon. Her<br />
poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Stream, Weave Magazine, Jabberwock Review, Neon, and Word Riot,<br />
among others. She is working on a collection of persona poems that re-envision The Wizard of Oz.<br />
Chauna Craig’s stories and essays have appeared in magazines such as Prairie Schooner, Fourth Genre, and Flash<br />
Interntional and the anthologies Sudden Stories (Mammoth Press) and You Have Time for This (Ooligan Press). Her<br />
work has been recognized by the Pushcart Prize anthology and Best American Essays. She’s won fellowships to<br />
Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Vermont Studio Center, and Hedgebrook Writers Retreat. She teaches<br />
creative writing at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.<br />
Risa Denenberg is an aging hippie currently living in the Pacific Northwest who earns her keep as a nurse<br />
practitioner. She is a moderator at The Gazebo, an online poetry board; reviews poetry for the American Journal of<br />
Nursing; and is an editor at Headmistress Press, dedicated to publishing lesbian poetry. Her most recent publication<br />
is blinded by clouds (Hyacinth Girls Press, 2014). You can learn more about Risa at:<br />
http://risadenenberg.blogspot.com/<br />
46
Jennifer Faylor is a poet from New York City and has her MFA in poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. She is the<br />
author of a choose-your-own-adventure poetry chapbook, “The Case of the Missing Lover” (Dancing Girl Press,<br />
2013), and a full-length book of poetry, Edison's Ghost Machine (Aldrich Press, 2014). She's been published in such<br />
places as Bat City Review, Black Heart Magazine, The Literary Bohemian, and Cleaver Magazine. Read her blog at:<br />
jenniferfaylor.com<br />
Ruth Foley Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her work appears<br />
in numerous web an print journals, including Antiphon, The Bellingham Review, The Louisville Review, and<br />
Nonbinary Review. Her chapbook Dear Turquoise is available from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing<br />
Editor for Cider Press Review.<br />
Julie Gard's prose poetry collection Home Studies was winner of the 2013 Many Voices Project at New Rivers<br />
Press and is forthcoming in 2015. Previous publications include two chapbooks, Obscura: The Daguerreotype<br />
Series (Finishing Line Press) and Russia in 17 Objects (Tiger's Eye Press), along with work in a number of journals<br />
and anthologies. Julie lives in Duluth, Minnesota with her partner and daughter and is Assistant Professor of Writing<br />
at the University of Wisconsin-Superior.<br />
Sara Ghoshal is from NJ. She currently teaches writing at Montclair State University and earned her MFA from<br />
Long Island University, Brooklyn. Her poems are forthcoming in a number of journals including Shampoo and<br />
Hermeneutic Chaos, as well as an anthology inspired by Hurricane Sandy. This poem comes from a collection of<br />
prose poetry that she is currently revising and hoping to publish, titled Peaceful Monster.<br />
Derek Graf Derek Graf is the author of the chapbook, What the Dying Man Asked Me, forthcoming from ELJ<br />
Publications in 2015. His poems will soon appear in Portland Review and Revolution House.<br />
Anxiety-ridden San Diego poet KT Gutting received her MFA in poetry from Saint Mary’s College in 2013. She is<br />
The Taxidermist for White Stag and her poetry has also appeared in the Bicycle Review.<br />
Sara Henning is the author of A Sweeter Water (Lavender Ink, 2013), Garden Effigies (Dancing Girl Press,<br />
forthcoming), and To Speak of Dahlias (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in<br />
such journals as the Green Mountains Review, Crab Orchard Review, and Connotation Press. She is currently a<br />
doctoral student in English and Creative Writing at the University of South Dakota, where she serves as Managing<br />
Editor for the South Dakota Review.<br />
Since graduating with an MFA from Wichita State University, Rae Hoffman has been published in Mojo, Kenning<br />
Journal, and was announced winner of the 2014 Cincinnati Library Poetry Contest. She spends her time reading,<br />
dreaming, and looking at pictures of pugs.<br />
Jennifer Jackson Berry is the author of the chapbooks When I Was a Girl (Sundress Publications) and Nothing But<br />
Candy (Liquid Paper Press). Her poems have appeared in Harpur Palate, Cider Press Review, and Mead, among<br />
others. Poems were also published in various anthologies in 2014, including We Will Be Shelter (Write Bloody) and<br />
By the Slice (Spooky Girlfriend Press). She is an Assistant Editor for WomenArts Quarterly and lives in Pittsburgh,<br />
Pennsylvania.<br />
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives, writes, and teaches in St. Paul. She was nominated for Best of the Net in 2012 and<br />
2014. Look for her work in Beloit Poetry Journal, PANK, Linebreak, Paper Darts, Drunken Boat, and elsewhere.<br />
Mark Allen Jenkins is the former Editor-in-Chief for Reunion: The Dallas Review. Currently a PhD student in<br />
Humanities with a Creative Writing Focus at the University of Texas at Dallas, his poetry has appeared<br />
in Memorious, minnesota review, South Dakota Review, and is forthcoming in Every River on Earth: Writing from<br />
Appalachian Ohio.<br />
Les Kay holds a Ph.D. from the University of Cincinnati’s Creative Writing program. His chapbook, The Bureau, is<br />
forthcoming from Sundress Publications in 2015, and his poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Southern<br />
47
Humanities Review, RomComPom, Whiskey Island, Sugar House Review, The White Review, The Boiler Journal,<br />
Borderlands, and elsewhere.<br />
Jill Khoury earned her Masters of Fine Arts from The Ohio State University. She teaches writing and literature in<br />
high school, university, and enrichment environments. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous<br />
journals, including Bone Bouquet, RHINO, Inter|rupture. She has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and a<br />
Best of the Net award. Her chapbook Borrowed Bodies was released from Pudding House Press. You can find her at<br />
jillkhoury.com.<br />
Born and raised outside of Rochester, NY, Erin Koehler is currently a senior at SUNY Geneseo studying Creative<br />
Writing with a Native American Studies minor. Stone Highway Review is her first publication. Post undergrad, Erin<br />
hopes to find a career writing children's literature and being creative.<br />
Rachel Lake is a poet from New Jersey and a recent graduate from Sarah Lawrence College's MFA program. You<br />
has recently been published in Glassworks magazine and The Bicycle Review. You can also find more of her work at<br />
Luna Luna Magazine where she publishes articles each month to their blog. To reach Rachel, feel free to email her<br />
at rachelklake@gmail.com<br />
Kristin LaTour's first full-length collection, What Will Keep Me Alive, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications<br />
in 2015. Her poems can be found in journals including Massachusetts Review, MiPOesias, Extracts and Menacing<br />
Hedge. She practices not going insane in Aurora, IL, where she resides with her writer husband and two dogitos.<br />
More information is available at kristinlatour.com.<br />
M. Mack is a genderqueer poet, editor, and fiber artist in Virginia. Ze is the author of the chapbooks Traveling<br />
(Hyacinth Girl Press, 2015) and Imaginary Kansas (dancing girl press, 2015). Mack is a founding co-editor of<br />
Gazing Grain Press.<br />
Sarah Miller Freehauf is the Managing Editor for Lunch Ticket Literary Magazine, a reader for [PANK] magazine, and an<br />
MFA candidate in Poetry at Antioch University, Los Angeles. She also teaches high school English and Creative Writing in<br />
the Midwest.<br />
T.A. Noonan's latest chapbook, The Midway Iterations, is forthcoming from Hyacinth Girl Press in 2015. Her<br />
previous books include Petticoat Government, The Bone Folders, and four sparks fall: a novella. Recent work can<br />
be found in Stirring, LIT, West Wind Review, Eleven Eleven, and more. A weightlifter, priestess, and all-around<br />
woman of action, she lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, and serves as an artist-in-residence at Firefly Farms, home of<br />
the Sundress Academy for the Arts.<br />
Al Ortolani’s poetry and reviews have appeared in journals such as Prairie Schooner, New Letters, Word Riot, and<br />
the New York Quarterly. His fifth collection of poems, Waving Mustard in Surrender, was released in 2014 from<br />
New York Quarterly Books. He is on the Board of Directors of the Kansas City Writers Place and is an editor with<br />
The Little Balkans Review.<br />
Carla Panciera has published two collections of poetry: One of the Cimalores (Cider Press) and No Day, No Dusk,<br />
No Love (Bordighera). Her collection of short stories, Bewildered, received AWP’s 2013 Grace Paley Short Fiction<br />
Award and is available from the University of Massachusetts Press.<br />
Christopher Petruccelli's friend Matt Fox says, "Chris is a springtime rose amidst dystopian rubble. A 40 in one<br />
hand and pen through his heart, never has society been challenged by beard or bard." But really, Chris just drinks<br />
whisky and smokes cigarettes with older women. His poems have appeared in Gingerbread House Literary<br />
Magazine, Connotation Press, Rappahannock Review and elsewhere. His chapbook, "Action at a Distance," is<br />
forthcoming from Etchings Press, University of Indianapolis.<br />
Kate Soules is from Vermont and enjoys hiking the Green Mountains, traveling, and punk rock. She has published<br />
in The New Poet, academically, and in journalism.<br />
48
Letitia Trent's first novel, Echo Lake, is available from Dark House Press. Her previous books include the poetry<br />
collection One Perfect Bird and the chapbooks “You aren't in this movie,” “Splice,” and “The Medical Diaries.”<br />
Trent lives in Colorado with her husband, young son, and three black cats.<br />
Donna Vorreyer is the author of A House of Many Windows (Sundress Publications, 2013). Her work has appeared<br />
in many journals including Rhino, Linebreak, Cider Press Review, Stirring, Sweet, Tinderbox Poetry, and Weave.<br />
She is a consulting contributor for The Poetry Storehouse, which encourages remixing poetry with other art forms.<br />
Her second poetry collection is forthcoming from Sundress Publications in 2016.<br />
Kami Westhoff's work has appeared in journals including Meridian, Carve, Phoebe, Stirring, The Madison Review,<br />
Third Coast, and is forthcoming in Sundog Lit and WomenArts Quarterly. She received her MFA from the<br />
University of Massachusetts-Amherst and teaches creative writing at Western Washington University in<br />
Bellingham, Washington.<br />
Megan Willoughby is a writerperson from Los Angeles. She edits and reads submissions at the NewerYork. She’s<br />
currently working on a Creative Writing degree. Upon completion she will grow a beard, join the circus, and flail<br />
her way towards adulthood.<br />
Sarah Ann Winn lives in Fairfax Virginia. Her poems have appeared or will soon appear in [d]ecember,<br />
Flycatcher, Lunch Ticket, Massachusetts Review, and Stirring, among others. Her chapbook, “Portage,” is<br />
forthcoming from Sundress Publications this winter. Visit her at http://bluebirdwords.com or follow her<br />
@blueaisling on Twitter<br />
49