Via del Corso, 111 Centro Storico,
4 giugno 2005.
My apologies, wherever you are.
in that small square off Via del Corso,
I photographed your argument,
filled the lens with you
standing on your toes,
leaning into him.
your lips pucker, as if you’d kiss,
but I can feel those wounded words
and watch the hands mimic every utterance:
pinched fingers point in the air;
a flick of the chin; ma va’ là!
basta!
the words and every gesture
become a dance all your own.
more than once you take two steps back, turn
and then return
to continue with such passion, such intimacy,
the sun slips behind heaven’s white clouds
and a light grey veils the day.
while others continue on premeditated paths,
perform circadian chores
or simply go about their business,
I watch you walk away, disappear,
vanish in a crowd that’s unaware
of all the music in the air. …
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The time will come when Earth wobbles so fiercely that overcompensation is impossible. Notice its placement, its tilting, its hanging in there, just there, without a way to know it’s going to stay there securely for a few million years before the sun swells up beyond its present state and renders the Second Coming a moot point. Unless that will be the Second Coming, an inferno that makes Satan’s playground mere child’s play. A blistering nugget singed beyond recognition. Encompassing flames, heat, molten rock. All things melting into the air, the sky. Souls as blemish-free as a sleek new tablecloth – an afterthought along with everything else. No more thought will be left to hang our coats on when it gets too stuffy to move.…
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It appears meager,
this knapsack of provisions
to sustain me as I venture into
your desert
but you know how thirsty
I get in the heat
and how small reversals
cause me to lose heart.
A blue mirage distorts a dune
into a faraway figure – perhaps it’s you.
I brush sand from my eyes.
It is not certain we will find
our way across.
An oasis of palms
may offer the promise of shade
or a feast for vultures.
– Dayle Olson…
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An ekphrastic address to Halie Torris’ ‘Girls in Purple.’
Does water drown the space between palm and skin?
Does a caress thicken the steam hugging their embrace?
Shameless, soulful will
merging love with oxygen
replace the air with gentle lust.
To breathe is to absorb sensations
dancing upon surfaces
often hidden, saved.
Does a single storm of sensation curb the craving for connection?
Does placing palms to soaked skin calm a racing heart?
– Taryn Deppe
Author’s Note: I credit the inspiration for this poem to painter Halie Torris.…
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“And what happened to the changelings, Papi?” The boy asked. “Where did they go?”
He waited to answer, theatrically stoked the fire a little. “They are gone, Schatzi. Poof!” He made the gesture with his hand. “We do not know where.”
The boy’s eyes trailed off in wonder. A fey glimmer. Soon it would be night. He broke more sticks on the fire, watched the boy from under his brow.
– Joseph Pfeffer
Author’s Note: In my recent reading and writing, I have been developing an appreciation for subtext and what remains unsaid in a piece of fiction. When writing ‘Changeling,’ I knew I wanted to write something about some brand of inimical folk mythology, but for me the heart of narrative lies in human interaction, so I made it about that: the subtext hints at the myth, though what is presented is the minutiae, the words and actions of the boy and his father.…
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Our split-level, brick ranch-house sits, metal
bars over the living room windows, front
lawn in shadow, wedged between two homes
exactly the same. Police sirens wail. Kids
smoking joints under the blinking street lamp scatter
across the asphalt of a street, riddled with broken glass
and soda caps. The sidewalk too is cracked,
roots of the lone mimosa buckling the concrete,
the knuckled up fist trying to extend its fingers.
A rope belts the tree that leans. Its pink flowers,
fragile umbrellas, sway in gusts of grey smoke
that puff up from open barbecue pits. Partyers done,
they slap water on their grills. Neighbors light up
cigarettes. Orange ash marks the nodding of their heads.
Even the fireflies linger,
floating in air, yellow bellies glowing, while
the neon lady of the night at Downey’s Bar
across the street flicks her hips.…
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I was two weeks recovered
when the nest first appeared,
buried in my hanging mint.
More people stopped by:
blew quick breaths and the bird
came home to nest.
First two eggs, then three,
then a sepia-splattered four
hidden deep in the twined pine.
Laid while white women cried
black wolf, an old myth breaking
through so many glass screens.
Then we forgot, fucked seriously
with mouths and I bargained
with god and I cried
after the death of G.F.
whose name isn’t mine to say.
We left for Birmingham
and worried they wouldn’t hatch
or worse – would be stolen by some
Cuckoos, smashing crystalline
brown ovum splattered
on the familiar cement patio.
When we returned, the birds were born
and the riots had begun.
– Alyssa Ross…
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