Issue 9

ALMANAC by Brian Simoneau

Thursday, 31 March 2016 by Brian Simoneau

April sets us on the scent of summer, opens up a trail

but it’s covered in mud. Buds on the branches but also mold

begins to stain the plaster walls. Patter of rainfall lulls me,

pulls me under after a week awake, weightless as I watch

the minutes flicker. We long for what comes next but never learn,

never learn to hold a moment in its wholeness, show our hand

at the table and take what comes, to know it comes regardless

so there’s hardly sense in hoping for an outcome we can live

with—unchecked wealth and recession, infinite stars expanding

to collapse, matter folding inward to absorb all light as

focused mass, a blossom that opened hours before it wilts

under frost, love and its loss. We long for each season as if

its being brings finale. We barter our lions for lambs,

empty limbs for leaves and blooms, but soon discover the pollen

slipped into the package and there’s no way of giving it back.

Published in Issue 9, Poetry

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TWO POEMS by Angela Peñaredondo

Thursday, 31 March 2016 by Angela Penaredondo

ANOTHER WORLD GATHERS

I sleep in a bedroom once a horse
stable for a monastery.

The monks have all turned
& the cork trees stripped to red.

I am a weak thing. A body down,
an eaten up mosquito net.

A white candle drives out fear,
a red one drives out lust.

THIS IS WHY I NEED A GODDESS

I love
those dead-eyed
winos, picking up empties,
their laughter of firework.

The city’s full and nuts
but I can’t hear
its usual neon,
thrum of its barges.

No, it’s quiet
and the devil blinks,
imagines small,
invisible things.

Tonight hurts. Fights.
Drops. Sleeps. It’s 3 am—
the Atlantic midnight
for a poet.

Come on, cruel finger
with your cruel
and refusing shake.

Come to me, finger
and not the bottle.
Go paint the bulge on this white
page. Write about hell
factories and cemeteries,
how they dance blurry
pieces of flames.

But instead you give me
the sea. My feet.
You throw love out
like an old sack.

A loaded mouth grinning,
a downer for dead
and night’s ripeness
inching toward wreckage

See, he’s got you too.
Finger, fix it and make it right.
Like a seeing-eye dog,
the lord will see you good.

Angela Peñaredondo Four Way Review Goddess Two Poems World Gathers

Published in Issue 9, Poetry

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Thursday, 31 March 2016 by Judith Brassard Brown

POETRY

Jesus Devil Curse by Lisa Lewis

Five Poems by Rachel Brownson

Morning Ablution by Khaty Xiong

Exhibit by Leah Falk

Letting Evening Come On by Joshua Gottlieb-Miller

Two Poems by Brian Tierney

Stick and Poke Tattoo by Lucian Mattison

Mother at the Beginning of Time by Brian Russell

Three Poems by Caroline M. Mar

Two Poems by Angela Penaredondo

Almanac by Brian Simoneau

Lambing by George Kalamaras

The Lungfish by Michelle Gillett

FICTION

Browning Up Nicely by S.M. Brodie

Five Stories by Karen Brennan

ARTWORK

Judith Brassard Brown

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Published in All Issues, Issue 9, Issue Page 4, Issues

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THE LUNGFISH by Michelle Gillett

Sunday, 25 October 2015 by Michelle Gillett

Deep down inside, I am afraid of the lungfish

suspended in its tank in the darkened room

meant to emulate time when desert was ocean

and ocean was all there was before we crept

on our stubs from the watery hem of existence

and blinked at undiluted light. There was no

going back although we still lacked breath enough

to inherit the earth. Head down in its gloomy tank,

on our stubs from the watery hem of existence

and blinked at undiluted light. There was no

going back although we still lacked breath enough

to inherit the earth. Head down in its gloomy tank,

God’s first creature made in his own image

before we began to feel at home in shallows and muck,
grew legs and arms, sucked in air and named ourselves,
is who we are— bone and gut, God’s face before we invented it:
stone-like, wide mouth feeding on every element.

“The Lungfish” is a particularly poignant poem written by my mother, Michelle Gillett. Michelle was diagnosed with lung cancer in early November of 2015 and died only three months later in February. During this brief time, she turned to her collection of poetry books for comfort. There was always a book at her bedside. It was the poetry of her colleagues and mentors that brought her solace and comfort. Poetry was the form of language that spoke most deeply to her heart and soul. She continued to compose her own poems up until the day she died. She loved poetry and dedicated much of her life to honing her own writing, teaching writing workshops to others, and serving on various boards and organizations that supported the arts. She was many things to many people but I always thought of her first as my mom: the poet.