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FOUR WAY REVIEW

TWO POEMS by Carly Joy Miller

Sunday, 25 October 2015 by Carly Joy Miller

girls gone vile

gone ballerine              ribbon splintered on the block            already bruised body

                                      in sweet crossing

time to cut in                                                                             cut in with my dollface

                                      lashes spoiled-heroine black

my mouth owed                                                                        at least belle du jour

trinket me                     my wryneck stalky limbs                     hair in constant pirouette

                                      I can’t let the brat down

the brat ligatures                                                                       the brat pasternacks

                                      the brat formerly known

as brickish house                                                                       for my stray fingers

the brat spitdried         so nothing falls out                              kind of like hunger

                                      just keep biting down

down on the plank                                                                    even with your pinky toe

                                      now drown

 

 

APPRENTICE

The butcher breaks me open,
says bones are sticks for flesh.

Early I knew. I broke my sister’s arm
the night of her third birthday. Happy

I was in my oblivion, so cushioned
in my sleep. That’s when he wrestled me

out to the barn five miles west.
The neon stamped my eyes.

There: bleating lamb. There:
hands lassoed in the leather.

There: he hatchets ribs until the meat
is the size of my fist. Perfect portion.

He keeps at it. I keep at it.
My country says abundance

in its red drenched coat
and I grab my share and some

I consume and some I spit
to frankenstein the animal

for a feast. And how I’ve grown
so nervy and ugly and full.

ApprenticeCarly Joy MillerFour Way ReviewVile
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  • Published in Issue 8
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FIRE AND JEWEL by Sydney Lea

Sunday, 25 October 2015 by Sydney Lea

Eighty-foot hemlock, spruce, fir, and pine–
They kept lifting off their stumps like so many rockets,
Smoke-trails and all. And I
Beheld the fire cross-lake from where I drifted.
I’d been pounding the water for bass when my eyes were lifted.
Fifty years later, I still recall my thoughts,
And how I thought that to think them was more than odd:

I felt gladness at having the faculties to notice
The hill’s spectacular, orange heat as it flared
To white with each explosion,
Then the whole of the conflagration bending toward earth,
A horizontal wall, a monolith,
That somehow tore downhill in a sudden blast
Of wind. It was gorgeous. Several hours would pass

Before I knew the flames had set Bo Tyson
Flying down Blake Cove Mountain on his grapple skidder
And into the lake by Stearns Island.
He had to take the loss. It was that or burn.
Donald Peavey, wielding an axe in his turn
With the makeshift crew, collapsed from labor and heat.
Mason the storekeeper dragged him away by his feet.

I knew Don, sadly, only a few more years.
He and Bo and Mason: all good honest men.
I can’t account for my dreams,
But last night I dreamed I watched that fire again.
Miles above, in what seemed pure quiet, serene,
The same jetliner crossed as did years ago,
The same scent rose– torched needles, caustic smoke,

The same diabolic roar coming on as I rocked
In the same canoe, the waves still slapping its hull.
In an hour five decades back
The length of that ridgeline turned as black as onyx.
My dear wife’s latest birthday will soon be upon us.
Is that why the dream passed smoothly into the next one?
I saw, precisely, a beautiful onyx pendant,

Hung on a chain from that comely woman’s neck.
I’d never dreamed such a lover as that rough ridge blackened,
Wouldn’t meet her for years and years. Nonetheless,
I drove to a jewelry shop upriver this morning,
Three hundred miles to the west of Blake Cove Mountain.
On buying the necklace, I felt some fire in my being,
Mild version of one that one ancient June got kindling,

And underground, for a long time after, kept burning.

 

 

Fire and JewelFour Way ReviewSydney Lea
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  • Published in Issue 8
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HAPTIC PERCEPTION by Athena Kildegaard

Friday, 23 October 2015 by Athena Kildegaard

The nurse wears blue gloves.
Her stool turns on four black wheels.
A shot is the first course.

I shouldn’t have picked up the bat,
wounded, vulnerable in the street.
The nurse wears blue gloves.

The violence of life, red in tooth
and black in death. Silence of the syringe.
A shot is the second course.

Bats deserve to live, who could
deny it, though we fear them (I should).
The nurse wears blue gloves

and tells me to call in case
of headaches, fever, malaise.
A shot is the third course.

We laugh as I turn down the hall.
I know she doubts my sanity,
this nurse who wears blue gloves.

It’s too soon for mosquitoes.
My children are grown and moved away.
The nurse wears blue gloves.
A shot is the fourth course.

Athena KildegaardFour Way ReviewHaptic Perception
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  • Published in Issue 8
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THE DAY AFTER A GIRL SPROUTED IN THE FLOWERBED by Kathleen McGookey

Friday, 23 October 2015 by Kathleen McGookey

Mother  yanked her out.  I  filled my watering can with  milk.
In  the  hollow,  we  could   barely  see my  bedroom’s  yellow
eye.   I  patted  dirt  over  her  bloody  roots and stood her up
again.  When I stroked her cheek, she turned toward me and
opened  her  mouth.  And when she sang,  she  sang  about a
sparrow  and  a  leaf.   And  when  she  yawned,  I  saw  baby
teeth.   Would  she  grow?   Would  she  live?   She  needed  a
collar  of  feathers,  a  pillow  of  violets. A  birchbark  suit.  A
firefly lantern outside a small house  made of stones polished
in  the  creek.    Mother’s   shadow  opened  my   window  and
called.   We  didn’t  have long.   The  tree  frogs’  silver  chorus
rose  in  waves as  I ran  back  to  my  house.  I could still hear
the  girl’s  faint  sparrow  song.   Maybe  she  was  calling   me.

FlowerbedFour Way ReviewGirlKathleen McGookey
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  • Published in Issue 8
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MARIA OF THE ROTTING FACE by Emily Jaeger

Friday, 23 October 2015 by Emily Jaeger

llena eres de gracia
             crouched on a stump,
                         feet dug into the red dust,
you peel the mandioca
             they feed you each day
                         to ten white blades.

Bless this home
             bendita tú eres.
                         Your children,
their hundred chickens,
             fourteen pigs, six cows,
                         three hives—
you counted them
             before words turned
                         to blue gum
and you buried them
             with your teeth
                         in the corner of the low hut
they built you
             between the rows
                         of pregnant squash.

Bendito es el fruto.
             They place your meal
                         on the fire
and you consider
             the flame: a stranger
                         carrying a tiger-
lily
             and you have
                         forgotten
what it all
             means.
                         Your rosary of flies
memorizing
             the days since
                         ahora y en la hora
they called you mother.

 

 

Emily JaegerFour Way ReviewMariaRotting Face
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  • Published in Issue 8
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ISSUE 6

Monday, 06 October 2014 by Britton Snyder

 

POETRY

First Winter by Hala Alyan

Two Poems by Patrick Rosal

Reprise by Kathleen Hellen

Birthday by Lauren Hilger

Two Poems by Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Stack of Brightness by Rosalynde Vas Dias

The Smallest Man by Julie Brooks Barbour

Persistent Design by Nate Pritts

Two Poems by Joy Ladin

Two Poems by Lee Sharkey

Trees by David Lawrence

Light Installation at the Hilton by Iva Ticic

Breath Memory [Breath Alphabet] by Cory Hutchinson-Reuss

 

FICTION

The Landlord by Peace Adzo Medie

Lipochrome by Nathan Poole

Singing Backup by Jason Kapcala

 

ARTWORK

Britton Snyder

www.brittsnyder.com

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  • Published in All Issues, Issue Page 5, Issues
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