our patterns make legs,ÌýAlan Bromwell

Ìý

ourÌýpatterns make legsÌý

(iÌýlike to close my eyesÌý

andÌýforget which limbs areÌýÌý

mine) and secretly weÌýÌý

bothÌýknow that our skinÌý

robesÌýare plastic hoodsÌý

unpeelingÌýwere it notÌý

forÌýtheir shrill separatist duty.Ìý

Ìý

myÌýsymbols are hers tooÌý

(likeÌýa flittering whim orÌý

aÌýpaltry dusk or a sillyÌýÌý

shroudÌýof ‘afternoon’)Ìý

andÌýintimately we craftÌý

reasonsÌýfor the slippingÌý

awayÌýof the evening.Ìý

Ìý

our patterns make legs
(i like to close my eyes
and forget which limbs are
mine) and secretly we
both know that our skin
robes are plastic hoods
unpeeling were it not
for their shrill separatist duty.
my symbols are hers too
(like a flittering whim or
a paltry dusk or a silly
shroud of ‘afternoon’)
and intimately we craft
reasons for the slipping
away of the evening
our patterns make legs
(i like to close my eyes
and forget which limbs are
mine) and secretly we
both know that our skin
robes are plastic hoods
unpeeling were it not
for their shrill separatist duty.
my symbols are hers too
(like a flittering whim or
a paltry dusk or a silly
shroud of ‘afternoon’)
and intimately we craft
reasons for the slipping
away of the evening

now I had seen in her,ÌýAlan Bromwell

Ìý

nowÌýI had seen in herÌý

thinÌýshivering legs (lemonÌý

corduroy) a certain redÌý

flailingÌýhello, and in herÌý

cracklingÌýwet windows tooÌý

I watched her spritelyÌý

rhythmÌýnod.ÌýÌý

Ìý

beforeÌýmy mind, aÌý

flimsyÌýcabinet ofÌý

paper-cup telephonesÌý

andÌýsplintery twine, hadÌý

seenÌýin her faceÌýfiveÌý

lopsidedÌýprior.Ìý

Ìý

itÌýwas a lovely pinkÌý

goodbyeÌý

Ìý

Aurora (II),ÌýAlexandra Fresch

Ìý

Aurora (II)

Aurora you were not my first house but now you are

Aurora all I remember are your vacant lots alive with dead

yellow foxtails and weather-gnawed trash and tiny paper rat skulls and grasshoppers springing from my feet

Aurora I was so young and you had no children for me

Aurora I had to play alone ranging over your Kentucky bluegrass lawns wobbling in the heat

in the dirt where I dug deserts in puddles where I set earthworms to suffocate while I unaware

of their simple long-brained fear watched them arrow through the water, elongating like pointed Slinkys

in the summer-melted tar on the streetedge where I built leaf sailboats and staked pillbugs on pyrocanthia thorns for the birds passing uncatchable like gods

Aurora your Highline Canal ran wet and dry like a wound where downstream crops nursed greedily in summer where the mallards

glided scolding to themselves like brooding hens and I threw stones to make them shout and scatter and fear me where I

stabbed branches to break the tiled soil and boil over anthills like giant red-jawed water molecules

Aurora your Highline Canal where my parents told me never to linger after dark, for fear of the very things that I always wanted to be

four-pawed dangerous eyes glowing like lanterned slashes in a rice-paper screen

Aurora your streets held a squirrel curled up too stiff to be asleep, a comma of foam at the corner of its mouth

Aurora your nights shattered with that hoarse cri du chat not even my parents knew; they told me to shut my window

against whatever it was, a bobcat or a cougar or a madman hunting smooth-gaited through the bushes

Aurora your days were long enough for me to think like the peppermint rioting by the drainspout—that I would know nothing else

no friend to ever roam with me, my uncatchable self

Aurora but your insects and your swarming sun

Apples,ÌýJennifer Burnham

Ìý

ApplesÌý

ÌýÌý

Summer is hereÌýÌý

DustÌýloungesÌýon my tongueÌý

ÌýI hold my case in damp handsÌý

Rap on the scorched screen doorÌý

The sun searsÌý

I listenÌý

Fat sipper footsteps, a weary metronomeÌý

I see him nowÌý

SegregatedÌýthroughÌýa patched screen doorÌý

Yellow eyesÌýblinkÌý inÌýrheumy sensual excitementÌý

My feet itchÌý

ripeÌýapples waftÌý

The door opensÌý

ÌýI squintÌý

walkÌýinto the dim foyerÌý

ÌýÌý

ÌýHello GrandfatherÌý

ÌýÌý

Stop Light,ÌýJennifer Burnham

Ìý

Stop LightÌý

The pavement looksÌý

likeÌýwhale skinÌýtonightÌý

Ìý

From the recessesÌý

ofÌýcrosswalks and cornersÌý

Ìý

MouthsÌýgaping,Ìý

openingÌýand closingÌý

MackerelÌý

Ìý

I wonder if theÌý

doors are lockedÌý

Ìý

A Vastness - Georgia, Jesse Edwards

Ìý

A Vastness—GeorgiaÌý

Ìý

  • theÌýtime before me is the sun is crammedÌýÌý

  • isÌýfishing for a reactionÌý

  • andÌýmoving onÌýÌý

  • andÌýleft outsideÌý

  • smallÌýwheels still spinningÌý

  • Ìý

  • everyÌýhouse had a mud roomÌý

  • everyÌýmother had peroxideÌýÌý

  • Ìý

  • Evan walks the waterwheel,Ìý

  • pocketsÌýthe emblemÌý

  • fromÌýa bootleg truck rusting,Ìý

asÌýeverything does notÌýÌý

theÌýcadenceÌýÌý

ofÌýa dogÌý

markingÌýits territoryÌý

Ìý

andÌýa pack of Virginia SlimsÌý

becauseÌýwe didn’t know what to buyÌý

  • buzzingÌýin dead leavesÌý

  • theÌýcops cameÌýÌý

  • Evan explainedÌýÌý

  • ourÌýpatchouli wasn’t dopeÌý

  • andÌýI forgot his twin’s birthdayÌý

Ìý

  • myÌýdog bit my mouthÌý

  • andÌýpuncture and wound and don’t lookÌý

  • I never properly criedÌýÌý

  • tillÌýfive years laterÌý

Ìý

whenÌýdad showed me a cotton plantÌý

  • I told himÌýÌý

  • myÌýfriend doesn’t know if he’s straight or gayÌý

Ìý

andÌýin high school I cried forÌý

  • theÌýBanks-Jackson-Commerce Medical CenterÌý

  • builtÌýoverÌý

  • myÌýWounded KneeÌý

  • Ìý

  • Ìý

  • andÌýmine over another’sÌý

Ìý

Broken Bells, Sarah Elsea

Ìý

Broken BellsÌý

You gave me these things to read: a bookÌý

Of sonnets,ÌýdirectionsÌýÌý

From my roof, my ownÌýpeelingÌý

Skin. The river pregnant withÌý

Dead grass and dirty waterÌý

I had nightmares I couldn’t rememberÌý

In the morning.Ìý

 Ìý

I kept working at the knotsÌý

inÌýmy jawÌýline untangling the wordsÌý

I would’ve hungÌýlike bells on your ankles.ÌýI knowÌý

herÌýlegs to be tall tales and failings I know her longÌýÌý

snakesÌýspinning knots into her hair.Ìý

I know her voice to be a citronella candle.Ìý

My voice was just burning outÌýÌý

the backdoor streetlight.Ìý

 Ìý

Your rusty veins ran sidewaysÌý

Through your arms around yourÌýtraintracks:Ìý

There are cracks in your knuckles fromÌý

Baptisms and sweat, the things IÌý

didn’t ask you.Ìý

Ìý

Sickle,ÌýSarah Elsea

Ìý

SickleÌý

Ìý

inÌýthe couch cracksÌý

crevicesÌý

mannitol, polyethyleneÌý

glycolÌýpropyleneÌý

glycolÌý

twistedÌýfork tendrilsÌý

atÌýthe throat backÌý

floatÌýweekendÌý

weekdayÌýbookendÌý

benzophenone-Ìý

4Ìý

Ìý

thingsÌýthat will kill youÌý

tryingÌýto hardÌý

en,Ìý

uncookedÌýchickenÌý

thyroidÌýdiseaseÌý

spontaneousÌý

dynamite.Ìý

forkÌýin your throatÌý

sidewalkÌýthroatÌý

fingersÌýdown yourÌý

floatÌýbookendingÌý

shoelaceÌý

mace.Ìý

flyingÌýchairs.Ìý

Ìý

Dear Sir or Madam,ÌýMickey Bakas

Ìý

Dear Sir or Madam:

Ìý

It broke through the skin of my gums,

the tooth.

Two cusps.

Ìý

I open my candy-cane jaw,

and kiss your missing eye.

Ìý

Dear Friends,ÌýMickey Bakas

Ìý

Dear Friends,

Ìý

ÃÛÌÇÖ±²¥ the hidden sidewalks:

I hate it when you look at me.

Ìý

I wrote down the season,

the situation of the leaves.

Ìý

Dear Children,ÌýMickey Bakas

Ìý

Ìý

Dear Children,

Ìý

Never meddling with the surface of the couch,

or brushing the bathtub horse with a dirty sponge.

Ìý

You too will grow up to be horrified at night.

Cold and shoeless on the elliptical,

and alone.Ìý

Ìý

Loved Ones,ÌýHannah Warner

Ìý

Ìý

The last time I saw you, you had wet yourself and curled your legs into your stomach.

Ìý

Ìý

Ìý

We stood together, waiting, watching –

Ìý

°Â±ð’r±ð in the hospital again and

you’ve covered your hands with butter,

the repetitive motions,

daily life in delirium –

Ìý

we gave you the full two doses this time and

you spread it over my eyesÌýÌýÌý faintly Vaseline,

the halos of oil

Ìý

°Â±ð’r±ð

everywhere

·É±ð’r±ð

standing at edge of the

the overwhelming sky

the fence

the rolling earth

Ìý

Lingering soft undertones coming from your bed –

your body

such a small body,

those disjointed sheets,

Ìý

you are lessÌýÌýÌýÌý andÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý lessÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý and

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý less and

ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý ÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý less

Ìý

Ìý

I am a child, a little plaything

Ìý

I remember going in to wake you in the mornings

you would grab me and tickle me.

Ìý

I remember

I would loose air

tryingÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý trying

to scream

how much how much

how much air for

sound

much and

manyÌýÌýÌý many times you wouldn’t

trying trying

you wouldn’t the sound

shouting and you

never wouldn’t

air air air

woudn’t you can’t

Ìý

you can’t hear me.

Ìý

Ìý

Ìý

You are dying of lung cancer.

Breathless.

Ìý

I’m trying.

Ìý

Ìý

looking at him like this

Ìý

nakedness, vulnerable

I see you shrinking up

looking for pants

needing pants.

Ìý

the things that build up on bodies.

Ìý

I can see the sunspotsÌýÌýÌý sores

on you

the markings

Ìý

you are so much smaller than me now

I search for something to say that will unburden you

but

I know that it’s always been like this

this heavy clothing

Ìý

I can feel myself reducing

dwindling

keeping you company

ignoring the fences

the fences

the fencesÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý we are

the perils of life

Ìý

but

I know you are unaware

searching for your pants

trying to get home.

Ìý

Ìý

Waiting

waiting for lost insurance

the other grandchildren

and sons

and and the daughters

all the others

Ìý

we are the boxing motions of all these

missing items...

Ìý

I am

absent family packages

it’s fogged detachable eyes.

Ìý

I don’t recognize you

after all that’s

spilt ÌýÌýÌý all this

some pointÌýÌýÌýÌýÌý some motion,

·É±ð’r±ð rocking back,

Ìý

again the distaste of –

Ìý

my dad kept you alive, waiting for the rest of them to arrive

Ìý

the recognizable night

pulling at your oxygen mask

sliding it down your face

Ìý

you’re waiting for that family portrait

it is endless,

late

unrecognizable

Ìý

regardless, we continue

Ìý

we are kicking the same bucket

everywhereÌýÌýÌýÌý just to be

almost over

to be

just

another

another

another

Ìý

Ìý

Grandma clings to the wooden box etched with Aspen trees.

Ìý

I’m trying to understand shrinking

I am grown but my size stays uncertain

waiting to

diminish back down

recoiling into that

sterile

bed

Ìý

how you go on reducing after death,

how even you

even though you were fully grown,

you are miniscule and ash.