By Francine Rubin
Posted on
Another day, another mass shooting.
Another day, another mass shooting.
At 4 am, baby kicks me awake,
and I read about the latest in El Paso, Texas
and Dayton, Ohio.
A witness describes a six month old
swaddled in blood.
I am due in thirteen days.
Yesterday morning, I wished
he would come.
Now I want him to wait.
I will stay inside the house.
He can stay inside me.
– Francine Rubin…
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By Forrest Rapier
Posted on
Florida Junes sweat you to the bone
Ichetucknee means big water or gift from God
heat like this I don’t know how you wear clothes
I got to sleep naked I got to
swear to God the chinaberry never quits
the cicada radio never quits in Florida Junes
crape myrtles pop their one trick
pink petals and paper buds die midair
Nature is a one trick pony if you ask me
Skylar slips off her aqua kimono…
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By Ruby Varallo
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The ocean dries up when I touch it. Fish and algae disintegrate; every drop of salt water seeps into sand. Emoto says it’s my negative energy, that the waves would rather go bare than be exposed to me. I don’t know the ocean’s feelings. And it doesn’t care to know mine: I’ve given up looking for my notice of its departure. All I know is the little girl inside me, and the apologies I keep giving her. I write sorries in handwriting she doesn’t know as her own. I’m a stranger to her now. Her tiered dresses hang dusty in my closet, gray around the seams. The mole on my forehead mirrors hers, and, to her disappointment, the scar on her fingertip still hasn’t faded. I try to tell her about the science of nostalgia, about sensory stimuli and chronological remoteness.…
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By Mark J. Mitchell
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Look, her almost bare stems bows away from glass,
casting charms and spells so you’ll face the glass.
Leaning towards light, this one expects you to play
like some little girl who’s not encased in glass.
Green, sharp and strict, still hoping. A soft sway
lights the words she needs to explain the glass.
Crossed as a sword, daring, calling today
shyly—come closer to her. She’ll tame the glass.
Commanding light to kiss her, calling May
out of April, she flies to perfectly shade the glass.
Almost straight as a delicate mast, gay
as a face card, reflecting the spray of glass.
Gather them all and mark their place—
Softly, gentle, careful not to break the glass.
– Mark J. Mitchell…
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By Eugene Stevenson
Posted on
The act:
disappearing
the past, not dramatic
as it once was, reduce coated
paper
to black
white ash. Now a
click: gone forever, code
overwritten, the result is
the same:
you are
gone, I am here,
without. Over length, crimp,
curl of synapses, you appear,
or not,
your face
as true as I
remember, or not, &
your melodious voice is heard,
or not.
– Eugene Stevenson
Author’s Note: One of the reasons why I write is to make photographs from the daily rushes our lives produce. I cannot discard photos, no matter how painful. Some people do so easily, out of hurt, anger, resentment, or envy. Images that remain after the photos have been destroyed are those we carry in our heads & hearts.…
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By June Lin
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Endless autumn train tracks – all these great abandoned houses and their fallow fields.
You get used to it. The endless hours. The blur of yellowing
Trees, and time, and bridges. Every two-exit town looks the same,
Toothpick diorama of a farm. What am I supposed to learn about life
Here, amid all the loneliness? Perhaps the elegance of a withering
Willow by the bridge. To be alone but not hollow, solitary but not lost.
You’re a hard friend to make and harder to keep, and I’m starting to think
That maybe you’re not worth keeping. In the grass, the implication
Of a body. In the car, the ghost of a great-
Aunt’s mediocre love. I’m not sorry for wanting
You to kiss me in the bathroom hallway but I’m sorry
That it didn’t happen before our friends came through the door.…
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By J.E. O'Leary
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to get to the waterfall
you must go straight up
to go beyond you must
take the trail beside it
there is canopy everywhere
and a rush of noise
to guide you
south are trails
to the interstate
and to the abandoned
bridges that cross them
beyond that the trail
flattens out i hear. i do not know.
i’ve never been
and no one who goes that way returns
the things we miss
we will miss forever
– J.E. O’Leary…
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