Tag: poetry

Issue Seven December 2017

Table of Contents   Erik Fuhrer — “[once there was a tree]” Julie R. Dargis — “BORDERLAND” Sarah Shields — “Two Festive Ladies” (art) Sarah Dickenson Snyder — “The Bosphorus” Laura Foley — “What Stillness” Nina Murray — “For L.B.” Sarah Shields — “Festive Lady” (art) Elle Arra — “sate” Jay Sheets — “A Match Can Become a Witch If a Child Makes It So” Sarah Shields — “Dead girl in the garden with blackbirds” (art) Christie B. Cochrell — “Spring Fever” & “Marriage” Sarah Shields — “Gold bird in a cage of iron and jewels” (art) E.B. Schnepp — “At the witching market” & “Bride-Body, Momento Mori” Sneha Subramanian Kanta — “How my…

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“[once there was a tree]” by Erik Fuhrer

[once there was a tree] only one tree because the world had ended already (it was nuclear war it was the nuclear charge of the nuclear body that shot its dust into the sun it was the climate that never stayed static but whatdoyouknow actually burned way too hot one day because all the bees died because of our nuclear honeymoon because of our swigging of honey because we never gave a shit about bodies that did not walk upright) the world had ended and the last body alive had to produce bodies so it produced a whole colony of…

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“BORDERLAND” by Julie R. Dargis

BORDERLAND Rosa was covered in dew. The dampness Weighed heavily upon her. Like fog, it Would lift. Above the crest, a patch of clouds Gained ground as the moon rolled into the sun. Suspended in twilight, Rosa rested Quietly in a world without borders. Between states of consciousness. Borderland. Navigation required that she be her Own witness. Rosa thought this apropos. Nature still had much to teach her, she mused. She rose into the coolness surrounding Her, sparking an insatiable thirst. As her roots dug deeply into the soil, Glad for the breeze, she reached out to the light.  …

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“The Bosphorus” by Sarah Dickenson Snyder

The Bosphorus   Along the European edge, the bridges in suspension—fishermen’s lines slanting in the darkness until morning opens restaurants on tops of buildings, fabric billowing continental swells of scarves & curtains & flags—all tiled walls in a domed shadowy balance of sun. Rumi’s clear water flowing infinity everywhere— rippling to Asia.     Sarah Dickenson Snyder has two poetry collections, The Human Contract and Notes from a Nomad. Poems have appeared recently in The Comstock Review, Damfino Press, The Main Street Rag, Chautauqua Literary Magazine, Piedmont Journal, Sunlight Press, Stirring: a Literary Journal, and Whale Road Review. https://sarahdickensonsnyder.com/

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“What Stillness” by Laura Foley

What Stillness previously published in Valparaiso Poetry Review   Lily pads ripple in summer breeze, as if they bloomed for me, revelation-white clouds float through a divine blue sky. No human voices break the stillness of this hilltop pond where I come to forget the foolishness of homo sapiens— where a trout leaps from the lake, splashes shining down, opening a glimpse into the world below the surface. My dog, wet from her swim between the visible and hidden, shakes dots of sparkling light from her dark coat, forming a watery aura. What sunlight does to water, stillness does to…

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“For L.B.” by Nina Murray

For L.B. After the Soviet invasion of the Baltics, the Lithuanian Embassy to the Holy See persists in exile, issuing passports that enable many to escape to the West. the staff unmoored the mission overnight a refugee a rogue the cable traffic thready as a pulse it stops resumes decrepitude becomes the foe indoors the oak banisters are buffed to civic sheen but ivy infiltrates the garden urns they ration paper–watermark and cardstock the Consul vigilant against first intimations of arthritis his cursive as yet unimpeachable goes on the dotted lines the passports claim a nation stake by stake this…

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“sate” by Elle Arra

sate if I could lengthen the hunger I would clothe myself in white linen with pure silver settings and crystal bowls with foot and stem. will you return at the sound of the dinner bell? If I could stretch thin the thirst, I would be a bar–– hewn rosewood, smooth edged, holding rye and bitters on my tongue, and you would sidle up close and order my soul from the bend in my neck.     Elle Arra, a Michigan native, is an esteemed writer and visual artist currently working and residing in the sultry foothills of the Appalachian Mountains…

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“A Match Can Become a Witch If a Child Makes It So” by Jay Sheets

A Match Can Become a Witch If a Child Makes It So   She pilfers a patch of cornflowers. She carries a storm in her mother’s eye. She is the thing that moves through trees, in shock of the seed pointing downward. She takes a bloodstone from her pocket, skips it across a sleeping lake. Across the lake, fireweed rings a burning trunk— a transient grove of electric story. The fire fell from the claw of the bird with many masks. On a ritual mask, the mouth can be omitted. A fish belongs to the lake, a fish her father…

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“Spring Fever” & “Marriage” by Christie B. Cochrell

Spring Fever The words I need haven’t showed up today, only half memories stirred awake again like the grape hyacinths and budding leaves— the train from Union Station (spring, in love) behind L.A.’s Olvera Street down to that mercado in Mazatlán with its shrimp soup, cilantro, badly sunburned feet; the frogs and campanile bells outside the open windows of the Eucalyptus Press at Mills, devouring Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries deep into the night after cleaning the ink from the platen, putting the poems to their crisp-sheeted bed; the made-up siblings I grew fond of drinking icy gin from their grandmother’s…

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“At the witching market” & “Bride-Body, Momento Mori” by E.B. Schnepp

At the witching market I found stalls, fetuses dried for luck. the stillborn fruit of another animal’s womb; tucking one small hypothetical-beast in cupped palms I felt anything but holy.     Bride-Body, Momento Mori The first thing he’ll take is your name, followed by your fingerprints, dental records, the things that distinguish one body from the next. You are bared for him; a bride—your bridesmaids wear black, they mourn you already. Your groom, more bird than man, a vulture, his walls are lined with women, none of them whole; partially eaten, partially decayed. He will eat his way out…

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