#6.1 Three Poems by Maia Elgin
sonnet I
my roles in your play: the woman with no feet and the tree they are not speaking roles but the woman rings like a bell and the tree cannot be tamed / I write the same poem every time you are never in it and when you are you never speak
except when you do / where do you fit in this world of baby birds fallen from the nest? in the big city— the toes of its pigeons gnarled or missing?
I’d place you back again and again I’d weave anew the nest and if you fall one more time I’ll take you in and feed you some concoction every half hour soggy cat food french fries and Louis Vuiton /
and you’ll never die on me except when you do
***
horses day
it’s a horses day the sky is slate / the air is syrup the trees talk in a green sigh
I’m at Flannery’s or Tessa’s or Caroline’s looking for kittens in bales of hay watching Keely at the stable in the woods with Renee and Mugsy in costume—Peter Pan
catching a toad with the cousins in the roots of the tree at my Annie’s house with Kate and Ben in Sunnyside / get dizzy in the yard / brick factory / go-carts on the swing by Brit’s house in the ivy-grown driveway on the slanted street
Tim’s playing on the field but I’m down in the creek with AJ or Max (shock of icy cold) harvesting watercress
it’s a horses day / Ben’s still alive the sky is big and the afternoon lasts forever
it’s a day for eating cherries on a hill spitting out the pits
***
neverhurt
a broke-leg duck took my faith
in New Orleans in City Park
I’m only human— I prayed for a sign / a beast in the bushes I never saw
only human is the orange cat walking tail-strait / only human squints to see the sun bounce off the lake
I see the wasp rest the breeze on her papery wings
on the pier when I rise like flames into the sky I must not go too far
I cannot leave my human body I would not know how to get back in
________________________________________________________________________________________
Maia Elgin is currently distancing in a creaky old house in the Mississippi Delta with her partner and their animal family. She has poems recently published in journals including Feral, Honey & Lime, Delta Poetry Review, and Cordella and a chapbook, The Jennifer, with Birds of Lace. She's an Assistant Professor at Delta State University with an MFA from LSU.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.2 Two Poems by Jen Currin
A Young Person, Complicated
"Sexist or Marxist?" she asks.
Apparently the question is that simple,
but my gang of sexist Marxists
were brooding a symbol
like a blood-star,
something to gift the goats
who danced with us in the garden
of forever after as all the wedding cheese
rose up like clumpy ghosts.
Her disavowal of these photo-moments stung.
She admitted she "may have
a mood disease."
Yes, and our grandma's a shape-shifter.
What's to be done?
A smelly person in a big coat
sits next to you, pulls out a crossword.
The scratching of his pencil
a small comfort
in a train of faces lost
in their phones.
***
Micro-dose
I am writing an article about mushrooms for a magazine that pays in craft beer.
They poached ginseng from the woods-- left the patch in shambles.
I haven't been studying my French and I've forgotten the word for "reverence."
The cities dwindle but the mysteries have never gone away.
On a hill, high as cats who licked the acid-bowl.
Sacred fern, smallest Garry oak, fallen cedar drilled open by two red-headed woodpeckers.
I rocked in a cold breath on the bathroom floor.
The holy man kept a tiger as a pet and healed the villagers with hands-on ginger and turmeric.
LSD five times and Molly just twice. I decided to major in accounting.
A micro-dose with coffee to stave off the predations of depressive thoughts.
My mother kept the peyote in her top drawer and in July finally flushed it down the toilet.
My father took LSD and lost his virginity on a hayride.
Some of my friends have a high education. Some of my friends never take a sip.
She wants to walk to the river later. I want to walk on the river later.
I never tell anyone where I worship, why, or how.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Jen Currin has published five books, including the poetry collection The Inquisition Yours, winner of the 2011 Audre Lorde Award for Lesbian Poetry, and Hider/Seeker: Stories, a 2018 Globe and Mail Best Book. Jen lives on the unceded territories of the Qayqayt, Musqueam, and Kwantlen Nations (New Westminster, BC, Canada, a suburb of Vancouver), and teaches writing at Kwantlen Polytechnic University.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.3 A Poem by Kelsey Wartelle
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday Contains a higher concentration of relief Than any other cup In any other place On any other day of the year
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday Is the most anticipated cup of coffee Out of any other cup In any other place On any other day of the year
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday Wakes you with the memory Of revival steaming through you Warmer than a malbec bathrobe Or quilted velvet protection from the tile
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday Extracts enough motivation to forget The cloudy reflection of a Psilocybin hangover Haunting the medicine cabinet
The first cup of coffee on Ash Wednesday Is made in the pale morning wash Of a sky that matches thousands of foreheads You woke up too late To be saved today
________________________________________________________________________________________
Kelsey Wartelle is a poet, actress, and playwright born and raised in Lafayette, Louisiana and currently living in New Orleans. This piece is her love letter to Carnival Season.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.4 Two Poems by Kristen Holt-Browning
________________________________________________________________________________________
Kristen Holt-Browning is a poet, writer, and editor based in Beacon, New York. Her work has been published in Juxtaprose, Eastern Iowa Review, Frontier Poetry, and Barrow Street's 4x2 Project, among other publications. She earned an MA in English literature from University College London.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.5 A Poem by Nancy Byrne Iannucci
William’s Rocking Chair
It started off sunny. I get to William Cullen Bryant’s house and the clouds took over like a head congestion – the view from his porch is radiant despite the hangover sky– a poet’s vibe can turn sunshine into shit and twist it into a sunset, but that’s not what I’m trying to do, there’s nothing I’m trying to do - I don’t even want to be with you but I can’t seem to tell you, so I sit & rock in William’s rocking chair, back & forth, back & forth, watching the lily pads multiply in days, months, & years - I’ll probably die here, they’ll build a bench in my name where people, old people, old like my soul will sit and blankly stare, regretting the loves they let go & the shows they didn’t see, like me in William’s rocking chair, rocking back & forth, back & forth. It started off sunny.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Nancy Byrne Iannucci is the author of Temptation of Wood (Nixes Mate Review 2018). Her poems have appeared in a number of publications including Gargoyle, Ghost City Press, Clementine Unbound, Dodging the Rain, The Ekphrastic Review, 8 Poems, Glass: A Journal of Poetry (Poets Resist), Hobo Camp Review, and Typehouse Literary Magazine. Nancy is a Long Island, NY native who now resides in Troy, NY where she teaches history at the Emma Willard School.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.6 Four Poems by Todd Cirillo
Saturday Night Sounds
The well dressed gang of girls sit at the outside table smoking cigarettes slowly in their high boots, tight skirts, taking bored look selfies and watching the streetcars pass down St. Charles Avenue.
Occasionally, one of them looks up at the stars, which are covered by the grey sky, but she continues to stare as if willing the clouds away.
A saxophone begins to blow a half block down the street the rest of the group doesn’t even look towards the beauty of Saturday sound and the star watcher continues to gaze upwards. The sax man walks our way playing his heart out loudly. He passes the outside tables and drowns out the Kanye West coming from the inside jukebox.
When he passes and his Saturday sounds begin to blend with the noises of evening, the stargazer looks from sky to saxophone, appears to sway in her seat,
slaps her hands on the table and announces to her friends,
“Let’s get fucked up!”
and who can argue with that?
The Recent Death of a Famous Poet
Listening to the pulitzer prize winning poet read his poems, one could argue he died years ago.
Wishful Thinking
We kissed once. It was on the corner of Rampart street and St. Peter in New Orleans. I wish I could say it was that magic movie moment, with the perfect song, perfect set up, lighting just right, bright orange moon overhead, anticipation giving way to action, like the final scene in Sixteen Candles, with the two main characters kissing on a table birthday cake shining with lit candles in between with nothing left to wish for. And when the credits rolled everyone was already halfway home, satisfied and happy with what the stars brought to them.
But our kiss wasn’t like that. It was sloppy, we were drunk, the music sucked, there was spilled beer and strangers crowding our space. We could not really call it romantic. We could only admit it happened once. There have been no second chances.
I have had a thousand more moments between that kiss and today, some amazing, others incredible, fulfilling and fun-- but all have put me back here, alone, staring at the stars, with one wish left.
What Little Remains
Another bar where no one knows my name, yet the bartenders recognize me from previous nights I’ve dipped in. It is the dead of winter-- a good time of year to go unnoticed. Everyone facing the night’s chill in their own way, retreating to their own warm corners, a time for keeping only the bare essentials hidden under all the layers. I clutch my glass and hold tight to what little remains.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Todd Cirillo’s latest book is Kisses From A Straight Razor (Epic Rites Press, 2020). He has many other books and misdemeanors. Todd is co-founder and editor of Six Ft. Swells Press and one of the originators of the After-Hours Poetry movement. His poems have appeared in numerous national and international literary journals, magazines and on cocktail napkins everywhere. Todd lives in New Orleans, Louisiana where he seeks out shiny moments and strange wisdom. He can be found at www.toddcirillo.com
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.7 A Poem by Jessa Forest
Lab: Medusa’s Head
Co-Requisite for BIOL 3160 Anatomy and Physiology: Wishes and Curses
Her eyes are closed. All 50 pairs of them. The ones in her face are taped shut—
—they don’t want us to take any chances. Every table gets a head.
One and forty-nine hissing heads not hissing anymore even though all the boys are snickering. Some of the girls are too. But I’m not.
I want to write a poem to the lackluster scales dusting her cheeks. But someone else did that 10 years ago and I feel so old, Older than stone. The teacher says cut. The teacher says peel. The teacher says uncover the eyes last.
The teacher walks by my table with a slight wobble in his step and wipes drool off his chin—
—he’s probably going to take out all her teeth and jerk it with her dead mouth, her cold lips. I saw that in a movie once. 10 years ago.
We continue peeling. Muscle, cartilage, I work at her scalp and dismantle her hair. I lay each dead snake out.
Dutifully, we recite their names: Vengeance Restitution Longing Bad Fortune Crashing-Midnight-Wave Dancer’s Ribbon Heartbreak
My lab partner puts on her safety glasses and scoops out the visual structures, the stringy muscle. What makes you turn to stone is a swollen bulge pushing out of the optic nerve like a hemorrhoid. Everything gets double bagged, dated, and carted down to the incinerator.
Why date the bags with dead eyes if they’re just going to burn?
________________________________________________________________________________________
Jessa Forest writes poetry and dark fiction. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks and The Slaughter Chronicles, a grimdark, Lovecraftian-esque paranormal fantasy about werewolves. Her stories question the definable borders of reality and indulge in the gritty, visceral aspects of contemporary fantasy. She was born in Arkansas, USA.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.8 A Poem by DS Maolalai
Taking delight in a cold winter evening
a fog. the washed out whisper of streetlights and the light from a closed upstairs window. the shining bright lines of invisible machinery hanging above some construction. a cold evening settling, the end of a cold afternoon. vapour blown in from the river, rubbing the corners and stray cat affectionate. the way water settles on the pavements and the dirty blue buildings; rising white bubbles with indistinct lines, like lichen as it curls around fir trees. like taking delight in a bright afternoon full of birds flying congregant. taking delight in a cold winter evening when no birds are flying at all.
________________________________________________________________________________________
DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and four times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016) and "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019).
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.9 Three Poems by Yoana Tosheva
Waking Dream States
I run into you in every place I dreamed I would and you explain why you left in all of them. Every dream starts with waking, so I always think it must be real.
When I fall into the next reality, I am invincible. I have no addictions and all my vices work for me. My mother sees me, and I mean really sees me but decides to love me anyway.
In the next version of this story, I am the descending sun and everyone stops in the middle of the intersection to stare. In the next reality I watch a person photograph the descent and smile.
In the next version I am in a room surrounded by masks, they are all named grief, they are all my father’s fathers. My face slides down and off my head and becomes a permanent fixture among them.
In the next version I gasp awake, I am still haunting myself. Living ghosts, they call it – I call it – does it matter?
In the next reality no one remembers my name, no one remembers how I got here. Then I do not remember – How do I fit my name inside my mouth like before? Who was I yesterday and how does that version of her persist?
Of me, I mean. I don’t remember how I used to feel – and does it still matter? Does she – I mean.
***
my brother speaks (in backwards succession)
hella memories flood when i hear that shit / I don’t talk on my goals until I’ve reached them / it’s the certain shit you can’t do anything about that ruins things / I’ve never been so close to an age and been like damn I’m old but 17 kinda has that beat / and you should also go to bed early / just keep in mind everything I said / it’s fine if you’re trying to make plans for the future but you need to be on track in the present / this isn’t a fucking fairytale or a dream / life sucks / you dropping out would completely kill the purpose of us being in America / hard work pays off / we can talk later if you want / stay strong / I swear you’re so dumb sometimes / it’s quiet without you around
*Words by Hristo Toshev, arranged by Yoana Tosheva.
***
Sleight of Memory
I do not remember the trip. Only the bright fluorescent lighting and two mattresses on the floor, a single blanket. I do not remember the trip, or the leaving, the goodbyes. Only being somewhere and then no longer being there. One time, I asked my mother why she lied to us, why she told us this was temporary when it wasn't. She said she didn’t remember it that way, said it wasn’t true, said she wasn't sure what would be temporary and what was permanent, anyway. I wonder how much of my memories are actually my own, I wonder how many of the stories I believe about myself are actually fabricated, I wonder if I gave myself this trauma, if I learned another language and then wrote only hurt into the margins. I wonder when my brain stopped observing in the mother tongue. Sometimes I dream and the dreams are words I have long forgotten or stories I never knew. Sometimes I dream and the dreams are languages I have yet to learn. One time, I told my father to go fuck himself, but I didn’t know what I was saying. That is what it means to hold so much resentment in two languages it overflows from your mouth like a curse. One time, I told my father to go fuck himself and he hit me so hard I forgot what the words meant. One time, my father hit me so hard, I forgot what I meant. One time, I forgot what I meant. Now I wonder if this, too, is fabricated. I wonder if nothing I remember is true, then what does that make me. I wonder if the places that bore you are also the ones that expel you, then is there anywhere on earth that will take you in. I do not remember the trip. Only the leaving, always only the leaving, and staying gone.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Yoana Tosheva is an immigrant and a third year student at Loyola University Chicago, pursuing a degree in Art History and English. She runs a blog about music which you can read at collectivecadence.home.blog. Her creative work has also been published in Diminuendo, The Beatnik Cowboy, Anser Journal, among other publications. Her visual art can be found on Instagram @yoana_art.
________________________________________________________________________________________
#6.10 Two Poems by Zebulon Huset
“Who needs brakes when it’s all downhill from here?”*
*from the Ramschackle Glory song “More About Alcoholism”
Does Wile E. wingsuit out of his cliffdives? Once he recognizes gravity’s authority, that is.
I like to think that I’m both Spiderman and spider—schrodinger’s badass and so insignificant
that anything in existence bigger than a penny has the power to snuff me into a smudge.
Do we sprout wings when the selfie goes wrong at Grand Canyon’s cusp, when the weight
of the entirety of existence toes the edge too dizzy? Where’s that wave of consciousness
during the plummet? Can we consolidate our bets in lightning reflex
in the infinite possibilities we hope lie in wait beyond the weight of what we know, we see.
Does he walk back safely and eat drumstick? Of course not. He falls and falls and falls
and there’s an inevitability at the end of the scene that isn’t seen on TV. Every single time.
And when it may as well be a fucking cliff we may as well buy another bottle, crowned royal
in both pronouns and level of fucked-upness— antithesis of fucks left to donate to poor schmucks
who still feel they need to care about the world and all of its hopelessly disappointed inhabitants.
***
A small bouquet in Minneapolis
My flight delayed by blizzard, past midnight, the whitewashed world, washed away by double-time wipers. Each new start buried instantly by the same old shit.
No cars on the freeway for a reason, which was reason enough of a reason for me to roll toward last year, as effectively as possible. A small bouquet of sunflowers alit my passenger seat, where you’d so often sat.
Snow piling up on the raised letters of highway signs casting shadows on themselves, I switched from Hendrix to Public Enemy to Rage Against the Machine without being able to maintain that urgency I’d felt as the green dots connect Delayed on the convex shale screen I saw myself in, miniature and rotund.
I circled your block as the clock’s LED led me through the drifting streets. Finally, fifth suburban circuit, I pulled slowly into your dark, vacant driveway. The little green numbers a nag toward my maybe-soon-to-be departing plane. Flight away from anywhere I’d told myself I didn’t want to be, again. An hour from the airport. Hour back into town. Sunflowers brown, forlorn in your place.
Propelled by impulse I heaved open the frigid car door, sapping cold as I shot through the shin-deep powder and laid the flowers on your doormat, gowned in blown-in wedding-white that seemed so inappropriate, yet painfully appropriate, and drove back to the airport bar in silence.
I learned, upon asking a friend three weeks later that you hadn’t even seen the flowers, by then fully cloaked by the snow, when you got home the next morning and shoveled your step, flowers and all, into a pile by your thorny bushes.
________________________________________________________________________________________
Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer living in San Diego. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Meridian, The Southern Review, Fence, Atlanta Review & Texas Review among others. He publishes the writing blog Notebooking Daily, edits the journals Coastal Shelf and Sparked, and recommends literary journals at TheSubmissionWizard.com.
________________________________________________________________________________________