TWO POEMS by Megan Peak
—In your bed, I lie
open to all the ways you have me: husked, sown, ruined.
You hover above, right hand burgeoning like a mushroom,
white, trembling. Outside the pine seeds slip from their cones,
plummet toward the ground. After you strike, I don’t try
to articulate the awful lull; instead, I close my eyes, blood-
banked, soldered, and consider how we classify seeds
not unlike love: by exodus, by arrival. Flowers, too,
with their explosions and repose. I’ve seen their exit wounds,
their hard births in the soil. I’ve seen myself here before,
between your fist and our sheets. Still, I unfold for you,
ask you to unshut all my parts, not just the soft ones, ask
if this is the point in a marriage when open means defeat.
Seeds burst against the roof above us. You say you’re the worst
kind of flower. I say I am no better; I say I am the vine
climbing up your leg as you hack away.
TIME LAPSE OF A YOUNG WOMAN
At low angle
my body resembles
fire-struck. A box
dumb and splayed.
The skin above
my eye twitches—
Every three minutes
a windmill stutters.
To be a woman
is to be unfoldable—
a box and
All the gods’ spears
tear: through: me.
Underneath the old trains,
between railroad joints.
A dull box
on the roadside
shudders in the wind.
From a ditch
As in: let me snarl, let me knot.
In the sky the last scar is a woman, cut
open before morning.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The Shatter of Birds by Javier Zamora
THE SHATTER OF BIRDS by Javier Zamora
Javiercito, you’re leaving me tomorrow
when our tortilla-and-milk breaths will whisper
te amo. When I’ll pray the sun won’t devour
your northbound steps. I’m giving you this conch
swallowed with this delta’s waves
and the sound of sand absorbing.
Hold it to your ear. I’m tired
of my children leaving. My love for you shatters windows
with birds. Javiercito, let your shadow return,
alone, or with sons, but soon. Call me mamá,
not Abuelita. All my children learned the names of seasons
from songs. Tonight, leaves fall.
There’s no autumn here. When you mist
into tomorrow’s dawns, at the shore
of somewhere, listen to this conch.
Don’t lose me.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: To My Polish Aunts by Mary Kovaleski Byrnes
TO MY POLISH AUNTS by Mary Kovaleski Byrnes
Skin pale and pocked with moles,
your names pulled from Slavic litanies,
were strong enough for farm work, had the taste
of whole milk: Bertha, Elsie, Hannah,
in your kitchens, I sat on wooden chairs,
one eye looking out for the coal-grayed cats
come up from the mouse-paradise cellar, the other
on the glass jars of oils and herbs—
twisted alien forms floating and preserved
like the saints to whom you’d pray
to make me fatter, to cure rashes,
never a prayer for a child of your own,
or at least none answered.
In your houses, I was all brash New World—
wanting peanut butter and Dr. Pepper,
my summer shorts a shock of orange
against the dust and pickled wallpaper,
all American lust for plastic and new-made,
distaste in my mouth for the crackling
polka record, the girdles waving on the line
like Polish mother-ghosts, or spirits
of your younger selves, the selves I couldn’t see
who spoke love and energy in another
tongue, danced on bunion-less feet,
hair crimped with flowers. What I’d find—
long locks of waving auburn—
wrapped in tissue, after you’d all died.
Even with that bird-weight memory
in my hand, I mocked you—
your porcupine kisses, the haunted
player piano, witch herbs, deaf ears—
with a laughter that made my father frown.
Dear Aunts, the Pope is dead,
the old country prospers
tentatively after a thousand years
of tanks. Dear Aunts, we left
the Saint Joseph buried in the yard.
Forgive us our forgetting,
forgive me my blonde youth
burning like your yesterday at the table.
Know I will be you some day—
my face will turn
as foreign as a century.
A small child will sit in my kitchen,
smelling of grass and citrus,
the food I’ve served her untouched,
for fear she might cross over
the invisible line between us.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: What I Wish For by Kay Cosgrove
WHAT I WISH FOR by Kay Cosgrove
At the party I would stand as a statue, offering guests talking points
about the Roman Ideal and that famous grace.
There is more.
I’d quell ambitions, have the armies stop fighting, ask for less.
I wish someone would put me in a category: patrician, miserable; that I had a baby,
was winged & self-assured, or that Corinth’s art filled my walls, or bookshelves, or lawn.
I wish for our Mediterranean’s return, for perpetual wind, heavier limbs, silence.
All this is not to ignore the stew in the slow cooker, the man napping,
or the horse we keep in a painting on the wall. This bath—
a luxury of Epsom and steam;
these conditions have already been met.
These are the facts: Rome fell before I was born.
It should be enough that I love my hair as a Roman, and that, like a Roman, I am.
There will always be the haunt of possibility and a golden era.
No one will ask to see this list.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Three Poems by Purvi Shah
THREE POEMS by Purvi Shah
MIRA LONGS TO BE MORE THAN A BRIDE
The sound of your footsteps
is waterfall. Why not thrust
off these bangles then? You
are already music & in your hands, I am
wordless sound in your worldless sound. Note this
concert of veils lifting & fires
crossing. A palanquin came
to witness how my head adorned
by marigold can bow, can summon
deep golden fetters of dawn – how night consorts
with day to disappear, how we alone burn for the fire
of being: we two will know what pulse
clinks our breaths as twins
in a mother’s pouch, both their own
& not own
– our original
I shall wear the moon
or your heartbeat
around my wrist.
WHEN PROMISE DISAPPEARS, MIRA SPEAKS TO THE THORNS
Sorrow: may you be known
by your other names – black
orchid, a scar burst, a thorn
at your jaw, the underbelly
of true joy.
Sorrow: were you to have a season, should you be
a head lodged against a doe-like shoulder & my bountiful
raven hair? Sorrow: may you fall
between autumn & winter or extreme
beauty & extreme quiet or
extreme bliss & extreme plenty, between
a burnt rose & its thorns –
or ideally between Sunday & Sunday, a day of day deleted. After raptures,
beloved-talk, a smile
in early light, how easy a heart betrays,
how each & every nerve
re-speaks splendors – lost. So we turn
back to the same dilemma, joy more slippery
in the hand & somehow
& in each
season sorrow standing
for your shoulder – perched
to draw blood.
HER HANDS ARE A FURNACE
warmed by the light of God or maybe her dark mother
fed her coals for breakfast in youth, hoping
to kindle the child’s black meat into diamond.
Wayfarers scout the country to enclose
her hands, these oracles of heat. She sears
migrants with warm shelter. She simmers
their cold burn with hope, imparts companions.
Her hands are a furnace, he says & shies
away. He wants to lead
her to the coldest chamber in his American home,
envelop her sun-spackled wrists from the homeland
in his brown palms. He seeks
to teach his nerves how warmth is spread.
When he clasps her hands, he too imagines
he is planted on stone floors, underneath a flat
roof, sun puncturing sizzle after monsoon rains.
His palms are soft, uncarved, she discerns. It is not easy being
a holder of heat, a foreigner to fevered belonging.
She curtains her eyes, trained to hide the smoldering.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The End of Labor by Al Maginnes
THE END OF LABOR by Al Maginnes
I stared through noon-shaded glass to see
how we are measured against our tasks.
My father and other men made sacraments
of sweat, days measured in squares of dirt, lengths
of wood, packets of seed. And tomato plants,
doghouses, leaf piles rose before them. Summoned
to apprenticeship, I labored and dreamed labor’s end,
my small hands once again soft fields.
In a city where I had never been, I had no math
to total the worth of the money in my pocket.
So I passed a woman kneeling on the sidewalk
as if she was a statue, monument to unending want.
Or I handed her all I carried and continued
down an alley echoed by strange words, smells
of fried meat, trees thick with unnamed fruit
bending over stucco walls to shade the ground,
the air cool with the symmetry that once came
after a day of building forms, pouring concrete,
when we turned from work’s closed world
and felt day settle across our shoulders,
our shadows skimming mud our feet dragged through.
In front of a Chinese restaurant, two boys,
skinny in their starched uniforms, faces lashed
by acne, stood with automatic rifles heavy
over their shoulders, protection for tourists
intent on moo shu pork or egg drop soup.
Their hands wove against the air as they talked,
illustrating stories of girls and back alley fights,
motion filled with the careless grace I saw
in the stride of a carpenter returning to work
after lunch, who walked from the elevator
on the unfinished slab of the fifth floor.
Minutes later he forgot to hook his safety line,
leaned back and kept falling, and I saw him
step again from the elevator, a moment
that deepened and widened until it was
something to be held, a coin, a bone
polished to the dull sheen of ivory,
as though a moment could be held inside an object,
sealed by something less changeable than language.
Shadows laid a dark weight across
suddenly unforgiving ground. Breath snarled knots
I knew from working with my father.
The building’s familiar shape held, lights
the shape of tears burning over each empty floor,
leaving us to weigh what we had to give
a job willing to consume us so completely.
Now the curved road into the city bends,
my eyes narrow against the light from buildings
I saw rising under the priestly dominion
of cranes, shadows climbing without language
or thought to gleam like small coins that tumble
into hands that hesitate, then close
to save the counting for later.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Three Poems by David Winter
THREE POEMS by David Winter
We spent her sixteenth, my seventeenth summer perched on a porch, talking out our love
for her man. I had little language. She was luculent. We worked back through wrong things, arriving
before him. Her mouth opened, black as a movie reel—I do not want to project. She storyboards:
her babysitter, ages seven to ten. He tells her not to tell. Years—her body becoming another body—pass.
She tells. There is a trial, but—
She finishes her cigarette. She is not asking questions. I cradle what she offers: a still shot
of suffering’s root, how survival begins with the seed’s rupture, soft flesh pressing through dirt—
these are not her words. I was raped, she says. And she sits, finishing
Our conversation moves on.
After Without Sanctuary, a collection of lynching postcards
Neither the number of photos, eighty-one, nor the races inscribed beside—all Black except
a few Italians—but the grain itself grates on my eyes. I came looking for lolling tongues, an
thing cut and weighed for my righteous mouth. Instead, their faces barely break from sepia
half their names absent from the weathered photos. Even the archived light of the one burnt
has lessened. I could walk away, white man that I am. I wouldn’t have to walk far. Embers
and cool in the hearth. I could sweep out the ashes, the teeth and chips of bone. Speak
to our neighbors one more day.
I learned from my mother which words were unspeakable, a lesson my older brother
promptly untaught. Dick. Shit. Fuck. I don’t remember where I first heard the banned word
for blackness, at what age it found its way into my mouth. Perhaps I asked at six, when dad explained
Dr. King and the end of segregation. Maybe not until, as a hirsute sixteen-year-old, I explored the world
with my mouth. Alcohol. Opium. Pussy. Amazing how rarely we white boys heard the word no
after our parents wore its power thin—that syllable paired with a fist or a badge became as precious
as a bag of pills. We baited each other like bears into the liquored dawn. I slurred because I knew
it was not right.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Self Portrait as Teenaged Boy Beating Swan by Colleen Abel
SELF PORTRAIT AS TEENAGED BOY BEATING SWAN
by Colleen Abel
Sometimes you have enough–
the cob, the pen twining
their necks to hearts,
all that fidelity.
The dank pond by the council
flats, like it’s bloody Windermere.
You only wanted to wreck
that love-shape they were making.
After, you sat, sad Zeus, and held
the one you’d caught,
stroking its feathered throat
as if to make it sing.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Two Poems by Danez Smith
TWO POEMS by Danez Smith
or how to tame a brushfire
or how you get on his last nerve
& juke on it
or how he breathes while he dreams
of a mouth full
or how the war was won
when you got him limp
or how his eyes shut up
& bottom lip caught ‘tween teeth
or how you spell your name
or how to own his hands
maybe one palming a nipple
or what elastic was made for
or how to see him certain of tongue
& clumsy with his skin
or what makes those nameless muscles
clench, trying to save it for later
or the hymn written across his veins
or how he hopes the world ends
or his favorite kind of Sunday
or when he knew
he’d kill a nigga
for your sway
TWERKING AS A RADICAL ACT OF HEALING
when your song plays, steal your body
back out the gut of that brute/nigga/beast/boy.
sweat the bile off, unlearn the word acid,
dance until the only thing you’re sure of is the ache
in your thighs & your name as a metaphor for steam.
bend your knees because you want to,
not for any god or dirty nails in your shoulder.
go down knowing there is still a sky
to rise towards. give your scars to the strobe lights,
let them wash you in lightning, wait for whatever
kind of salvation a basement brings. twerk
& ain’t that the best prayer?
tonight, you left his ghost at home, left a note
for him to pack his ghost-shit & leave
by the time the sun soars in your honor. honey, you’re here
& that’s it’s own psalm. don’t let nobody look at you
& not know they looking at the risen. this how you write
free all over your bones & for the first time
you know free doesn’t mean how his hands mistook you
for somebody’s water, but how you were made to be
like wind, like a hawk, like a doe mid leap,
like a storm, like a child, like a song.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The City is a Body Broken by Natalie Scenters-Zapico
THE CITY IS A BODY BROKEN by Natalie Scenters-Zapico
Most days, the light falls so thick
I don’t know what it is to be
without it. At night we lie
in bed away from each other,
the moon so bright it is a scrim
for the sun. When clouds come,
monsoons flood freeways, trap
old tires against barbed wire.
Your body, a victim of erosion,
turns bone. I jump from our chainlink
bridge and only break a foot.
Which of us has become
the natural disaster? In bed, I blame
the fever, the sores that line my mouth.
But it’s my foot that’s swollen. I wrap
it in custom’s forms. Will I ever know
where you hide my money, or
the mountains where I hide your guns?
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Harbingers by Tory Adkisson
HARBINGERS by Tory Adkisson
There are kettles of vultures
resting on the stove.
Some apple cores
rotting in the trash.
Our home’s a monastery,
from the ceiling like tiny
bells. You get angry
whenever I ask too many
questions, but my gullet
hangs open, thirsty
Every day’s a black hole
with a pinprick of swallow
-tails at its center.
I’m so thirsty for answers,
when they start falling
I’m sure to drown
along with the turkeys.
You know I’m too impatient
to do other
-wise. I disregard
every tender gesture,
every kiss & caress,
dancing in a pirouette
of pink flamingoes, perfectly
en pointe & still reckless.
I don’t regret teaching
you how to hate
in articulated syllables—
when you call me a fucker,
I can’t help but smile
at my own voice parroted back.
If it weren’t for the cudgel
of larks lurking in your iris, I’d
wonder if your darkness
were different than mine.
Day after day of this heart
-ache & still you fly back
to me, puffing up
your chest, ostentatious, pea
-cocked & loaded. You don’t like it
when I burn the dinner,
or spill the tea, when
of my throat’s
too clotted with leaves.
You don’t like that I might
give away the future
if I speak. You never want to know
you never want to think
about after. You’d rather
drink the future
& just as soon
forget it, whether jasmine
or mint, oolong
or honey. Meanwhile
I’m growing ever more
vestigial & ornery.
There’s just no saving us.
The ravenous woodpeckers
sparrows watch from
the safety of the trees. They know
one day someone’s going
to shoot us down & all
this noise, all this rage
we harbor, will mean nothing
when we’re nothing
but a pair of omens
nestled in the dirt, waiting
without wings, to be savaged.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Autoimmune by Micaela Mascialino
AUTOIMMUNE by Micaela Mascialino
when she hears the word
she pictures a car
crashing into a column her spine
she’s told other words
invasion foreign attack
now missiles are guided
into finger joints
the left elbow a combat zone
like an allergy
to part of yourself
the doctor explains
her knees are sneezing
where she sees a stub
of pale thumb
something in her sees
she’s a girl inside
of another girl
a whole rejecting
something extra her body
insists keeps swelling
to point out the exact places
here right here
get rid of this
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Barnstormers by Malik Abduh