Issue #22.1 A Poem by Robert Allen
Westport, 2006
I went away because I was blue, but told friends it was an adventure, that I’d write a book. I house-sat near a sick sea in a small gray town and saw no one for a time.
8 months of no one is hard, like eating less food or losing day after day to nothing but loss–
unending chains of loss, a terrifying stillness where nothing ever happens.
Nothing except this hole blown in my chest by long sadness.
Nothing except for that.
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Robert Allen lives in Oakland, CA with his family where he writes poems, teaches poetry, and coaches poets in their craft. He has been published widely in online magazines and in print. www.robertallenpoet.com
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Issue #22.2 A Poem by Clara Burghelea
What moves me
The way the day promises to implode with affections, blooming tulips outside the narrow window, this body
ready to undo itself with kindness, a crooked thirteen-year-old smile behind the Huawei screen, mă ajuți la tema la română?
Truth is I left the other side of me in Vâlcea, learnt to carry within me the Drăgoești orchard, the storied steps in front
of the cottage, the skin of the fingertips aching to touch the air silhouette of a mother, grief curling itself under every crack,
this poem both willing to show and hide, a hunk of Dallas clouds, a brushstroke of sun, Clarita, sings the voice of the mother in this house,
ven aquí, los frigoles están listos, and I go, and spread the fried beans on a piece of bread, blame the green salsa for my moist eyes.
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Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet with an MFA in Poetry from Adelphi University. Recipient of the Robert Muroff Poetry Award, her poems and translations appeared in Ambit, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her second poetry collection Praise the Unburied was published with Chaffinch Press in 2021. She is Review Editor of Ezra, An Online Journal of Translation.
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Issue #22.3 Two Poems by Howie Good
Law of Moses
I jolt awake at four in the morning, the coldest hour of the day. The darkness buzzes like a swarm of flies when I raise my head from the pillow. It’s as if once reliable physical laws are being mocked. Next thing we know trees will break loose of their roots and blast into space and the birds evicted from their nests by the upheaval die off. And there’ll be little I or anyone can do, maybe plant flowers in clay pots and old whiskey barrels to compensate while the Earth feels the same puzzlingly pain that the rock Moses struck with his staff felt.
Ludwig B
With his stormy temperament and sour face, he was a person best avoided. Even police spies kept their distance. Under the piano on which he composed, he’d tauntingly leave a reeking chamber pot for an unfortunate servant to discover. He harbored a particular hatred for rats. If he saw one in the kitchen, he’d chase it with a meat cleaver. The bite of a rat flea had infected him with the typhus that helped destroy his hearing, a loss akin to a cosmic event, our assumed abandonment by God, for example, or the unchained melody at the time of Creation.
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Howie Good's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.
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Issue #22.4 A Poem by Isaac James Richards
Snow Octopus
I awoke startled by the softness of silent snow— eighteen inches.
In the courtyard college students heave a boulder of dense water.
Not a snowman— white tentacles carved out below a bulbous brain.
Sunny out today, the courtyard all grass and yellow but for the squid.
Dappled darkly with dirt grime the whitish ‘pus stood stone still.
It’s leaning now wilting to the side from water made to earth return.
Novice sculptors! Ekphrastic muse! Merge land to sea mammal with fish.
Harden water to snow soften dirt to mud, nourish and destroy grass.
I too am part water part earth my home part water part earth.
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Isaac James Richards is an aspiring poet, current graduate student, and first-year writing instructor who has lived in northeast Idaho, south India, and Israel/Palestine. To date, he has won four poetry contest awards, and his most recent poems are forthcoming in Constellations, Amethyst Review, and The Volney Road Review. He is also a reader for Fourth Genre and a contributing editor at Wayfare. When he is not writing or teaching writing, he enjoys practicing Buddhist meditation. He can be reached via his website: https://www.isaacrichards.com/
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Issue #22.5 A Poem by Candice M. Kelsey
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CANDICE M. KELSEY [she/her] is a poet, essayist, and educator living in both Los Angeles and Georgia. A finalist for a Best Microfiction 2023, she is the author of seven books; her latest chapbook POSTCARDS from the MASTHEAD has just been released with boats against the current. She mentors an incarcerated writer through PEN America and reads for The Los Angeles Review. Please find her at https://www.candicemkelseypoet.com/.
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