The day was
sweltering. There was a distinct smoky smell of baking skin, of salty sweat
breaking through layers of carefully applied make-up and deodorant and cologne.
It was the first sunny day of summer and by 11AM it had reached peak
temperatures, threatening to break records. On the radio they were calling it
an Irish Heatwave as it neared the mid-twenties, encouraging everyone to get
their sun-cream on and their swim trunks out, and journey to Dun Laoghaire or
The Strand for a day of sea and sand, one not to be missed.
I knew the
scorching temperatures were no accident – that they would come on this day
seemed entirely appropriate, as I drove away from Dublin, early that morning,
overwhelmed by the aroma of sweating leather and the sizzle of metal from my
seat belt.…
The plane to Charlotte is late and the gate won’t open for air. Lights pass in the sky, and one must be the twinkle in your eye. Travelers hold little mirrors in their hands, without reflection, unaware the massive amount of breathing in this place, all of us existing in a box until the mask on a mouth can’t save us, and more than a plane goes down. Without notice. Without time to reach for the hand in the next seat over. I’m stuck at this gate between here and there, just waiting, counting breaths, while you so quietly moved on.
Author’s Note: This poem started when I received a phone call that a friend had died. I was waiting at the gate for my plane and wasn’t able to embrace my emotions at the time.…
Carolyn Turgeon’s appearance evokes an otherworldly elegance effusive with joy. With her long dark hair, complete with shiny streak of navy blue, red lipstick, and big blue eyes, Carolyn Turgeon seems herself to be a high priestess, the kind of magical creature who would be right at home in her sumptuous fantasy worlds.
Turgeon learned to love reading as an escape from her shy, dislocated childhood. She says, “I loved being alone in my room and reading.”
By chance, Turgeon’s mother brought home a book from the Betsy-Tacy and Tib series once by accident. These books by Maud Heart Lovelace had a tremendous impact on Turgeon’s development as a writer. Protagonist Betsy grows up in a small Minnesota town, reading as much as she can, climbing trees, and hoping to become a writer.…
Author’s Note: This poem is from my recently completed chapbook, Where the Waters Still. This collection contains work exploring grief, loss, and the body, often through a mythological lens. …
Karolina Zapal is an itinerant poet, essayist, translator, and author of Polalka (Spuyten Duyvil, 2018). Her second book, Notes for Mid-Birth, is forthcoming from Inside the Castle in late 2019. She is collaborating with the poet CA Conrad on translating their book, The Book of Frank, into Polish. Her work has appeared in Posit, Cathexis Northwest, Witness, Bone Bouquet, Adirondack Review, Bombay Gin, Foglifter, and others. She has completed three artist residencies: Greywood Arts in Killeagh, Ireland; Brashnar Creative Project in Skopje, Macedonia; and Bridge Guard in Štúrovo, Slovakia. She served as the Anselm Hollo Fellow at Naropa University from 2015-2017. She now works in Student Services at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts & Humanities.…
When I was a little girl, I never learned to crawl. I learned to walk and then I learned to fly. My parents were very proud of me. They said, Go far, but watch for sharp winds from the East. So I would leave my home and go everywhere. I would go west where it was warmer and south where it was drier, and up a long way until I got cold. I have seen islands and I have seen deserts. I like them all but I like meadows the best, especially in winter when they turn flaxen and silver. I can see trails of vole urine like neon, and although the world is big and all mine, in the distance the mountains are like the sides of a crib of the earth to hold me.…
