Saudade

 

At the train-station in Birmingham, I’m reliving rhetoric for street-music

though I could be seeing other things for psychoanalysis: the woman with

 

the garden colored passport, the hospice house with silhouettes in its frame

of incandescent light-bulb windows, or the bonsai seller rubbing his cold hands,

 

thinking of the thorny shrubs lined in ascending order as a synecdoche for Eden.

 

Night birds on their prowl must be migratory, wild animals with wings, having

abandoned the shelter of nests. Their singing cuts through a thick ribbon of fog.

 

The night scatters blackness as weeds sprout in an untended spot as residuals,

as incantations. With a novel about a shipwrecked city in my hand, I realize

 

the blue stars in a distance give a damn. The night is leaving fingerprints everywhere.

 

 

 

After The Funeral Was Over

 

& the favorite cousin had finished the recital of Dylan Thomas’s

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” they carried Norma’s

coffin into the graveyard with an entrance full of wild flowers & plums.

                                                   Here, I was half-neighbor,

half-friend, punctuated with interludes of silent nodding & sympathetic

smiles in the white space,

                                        in a black dress with orchids in my hands.

But only—today, there is no screaming, joy kicking the viscera, or

putting the orchids in freshwater with sugar in a monochrome vase.

Her great-grandson Google’s “What Happens When You Die” on his

                                       phone & scrolls downwards with the speed

of an eager deer running away from a chasing tiger.

I muster the courage to tell him that Norma & I were garden-goers

& have seen the sun plummet into the stomach of a sea. He nods.

                                      Inside, the house smells of sawdust & incense.

Outside in the garden, a caterpillar slips from the edge of a thin leaf

into another. The afternoon hatches into a greening & spring ushers

cruelly without reverence for the dead— or dying.

                                       The red berries look bruised.

Dying is a serious business. I have to do nothing.

 

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Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a GREAT scholarship awardee, and has earned a second postgraduate degree in literature from England. Her work is forthcoming in Figroot Press, Dirty Paws poetry, VIATOR project and elsewhere. She has been the general advisor and poetry editor for her university journal, INK (UPP). She is the founding editor of Parentheses Journal, a literary initiative that straddles hybrid genres across coasts and climes. She loves horses and autumn.                                

 

A cup of wine, to help forget.
A painted mouth, to suck the poison out.
A plate of fish, for nostalgia’s sake.
A knife in your pocket, if you meet old friends.
A fistful of ergot, to go back to the garden again.
A length of rope, to climb to Heaven.
A hole in a potter’s field, should you fall on the way up.

 

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1.      This is chaos. Organized in its own right, but chaos all the same. This is the wind slamming doors closed because all the windows are open and the books propping them open aren’t as thick as cinderblocks. This is curly dark hair blocking her from view. She is smiling, wearing chapstick because lipstick makes her seem too put together. Her high heels sound too loud on the hard wood floor. They give the illusion that the house is empty, devoid of conversation and laughter, but not people. She rubs her hands together to warm them up, but doesn’t think to close all the windows. Even inside the house, it is a windstorm.

2.      This is broken. She kneels on the carpet and studies the chip out of the coffee table. She holds the broken piece in her hand, like she cannot believe that after eight years, it broke today, like fate must’ve had something to do with it. She turns away, runs her fingers over her lips, ignores the pink stain that is left there. She is determined not to let it bother her and throws the broken wood over her shoulder. It is salt in that superstition from a million years ago. Maybe this too, will bring her good luck. It lands on the sweater she put through the dryer one too many times to have the illusion of fitting properly. Now the sweater will go to good will and the wood to the garbage, or maybe the fireplace if she remembers.

3.      This is old. Red and worn, but mostly old. It would turn to dust if you touch it, so you look at it, study its spine, nestled between Nabokov’s other books. A word of caution: You can hear it in each of the pages you flip through, quickly, like you don’t want to find out the ending, despite already knowing. You can feel the hair on your arms standing up, because it tickles, the voices tickle! Their lips press against your skin, murmur things in your ear, things you don’t listen to. A word of caution: this book is a trap.

4.      This is lovely. At least, it is supposed to be. The wedding march is playing somewhere upstairs and the telephone is ringing but no one’s going to answer it. The bride picks at her freshly painted fingernails, and then bites them, then bites the hangnail on her thumb until it bleeds. Until it runs down her thumb and someone gives her a tissue to keep it from spilling onto Nana’s chair. She rips the tissue up, letting the pieces fall onto the tile floor. The wedding march plays louder; someone’s idea of a joke. The bride purses her lips and her lipstick stays in place.

 

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Jordan Meechan is an English major from Rochester, NY. When she’s not writing, she’s likely re-watching The West Wing or re-reading Harry Potter for the hundredth time. Her work has been published through ANGLES literary magazine, and she can be found @j_devereaux_ on Twitter. 

Howdy. I have muscular calves. No offense—you are
beautiful, look like a treasure, perfect combination
of sexy and cute. I’ve always had an eye on the finer

things in life, obviously had to message you. Let’s drink
beer and eat ice cream (I don’t drink hot beverages —
that’s the devil’s temperature). I wear glasses, have an

accent, nerdy as it can possibly get. Not really good
at talking about myself, but I’m a real person. Not everybody
can take care of a treasure, but I can show you my

excellent massage skills. Would you be interested in
a married guy? Press 0 to be disconnected or enter
your phone number to continue.

———————————————————————————

Lines for “Lines that Make Me Want to Become a Cat Lady” taken from OkCupid dating site:

“no offense you are beautiful” — monks66

“Howdy…I have muscular calves” — jaywoods152

“Let’s drink beer and eat icecream. my tremendous intuitive sense of the female creature informs me that you are troubled.” — Dopestdave1808

“Congratulations! Your application to be Anthony’s future wife has been successfully submitted. Press 0 to be disconnected or enter your phone number to continue.” —Arizzo7

“Like i stated in the beginning you look like a treasure and not everybody know how to take care of treasure as but i can promise you with respect, caring, and loyalty which i want back in return “ — whocanispoil

“Show you my excellent massage skills. It may be a tense year.” — Neworleans10

“Im sure you get this a lot but you look like the perfect combination of sexy and cute”  — yaoming48

“I’ve always had an eye on the finer things in life. So obviously, I had to message you. Hey!” — SP15a

“I’m not really good at talking about myself but I’m a real person and wanted to say hello.” — Stratocat88

“I see you like coffee. I don’t drink coffee. Actually, I don’t drink hot beverages of any kind. That’s the devil’s temperature.” — jdobored

“I am a school nerd sorry. I wear glasses and I have an accent. I am as nerdy as it can possibly get.” — Tem2016asaurus

“would you be interested in a married guy?” — 212doublem

 

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Vanessa Peterson received her BA in English with a writing concentration from Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania and is currently attending graduate school at Arcadia University. She’s studying to receive her MFA in poetry and is a current poetry editor for Marathon Literary Review. She lives in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Her work has been previously published in Unlost Journal.

Things that are
inexpensive or,
things that are not
pulled out from your flesh. Only
made with ordinary hands,
plain bones. Placid lakes or / livers / or lips.
If I keep telling you
that you know what I meant to say,
could you make out the stifled phantoms
in my throat?

I felt like it was a snake, or
I was a snake—you know, when
splitting flesh from flesh is too thin,
you can’t help but lose the structure, the
cells ruptured in transition, the artifacts lost,
then there’s nothing but our staggered
reflections smeared across the glass.

What is it about the vibrations
in the air, in the wall, that bends
the light? Why the wobbly legs,
such drunk illusions eager to ease
the blood from our papercuts. Why
the ocean, when you can just as easily
drown in a tub?

 

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Joyce Chong lives in Ontario, Canada. She is a contributing editor for Wildness Magazine’s weekly column, the Wilds. Her micro-chapbooks “Inventory” and “Dream-like Houses” are available from Ghost City Press. You can find her at joycechong.weebly.com or you can follow her on twitter @_joycechong.

come to america, immigrants!
we have the best of everything:
fair & equal treatment for all, walls coming soon!
fifty percent off education quality & success!
staggeringly mind-blowing possibilities of developing mental illnesses!
responsible political administrations that listen to citizen input!
unbeatable likelihoods of mass shootings!
insane discounts on human lives!

 

 

 

*just close your eyes

 

---

 

For Sydney

 

You take him into you as belladonna.
The boy, a velvet moonchild, oil and
myrrh and entropy and the carcass of a 

planet gone up in flames. You ask him to
pass you in orbit and when you look 
into his smokescreen eyes and see

rust and amethyst, butterscotch 
forgiveness, his mouth tastes like rain. 
There are no other words for “birth”

but in another galaxy perhaps “wound” 
tastes the same in a mouth. 
Starling, his cupped hands will

not pour love into your spine. You
become undone by the trembling
of light, only to find yourself blind 

and alone when it implodes. In 
another galaxy there are no more 
sounds for colors to make, no more 

stars to burn for. The unspooled curve
of a crescent cannot melt winter in a 
body, it can only break bones.

 

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Jennifer Boyd, 17, is a poet, blogger, and pianist. The recipient of the 2017 Easterday Poetry Prize, she has written work appearing and forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, Alexandria Quarterly, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and The Sierra Nevada Review, among others. In addition, her work has been recognized by Fidelity Investments, Princeton University, Smith College, Hollins University, the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and the New Jersey Talented Young Musicians Association.

Hope’s a Spaceship!

 

Our 20s look better from the star right above where we grip onto / flinging / flying off circus re-adjusting anxiety thru hair bangs, bikini and mortgage and wake and wake and wake and wake to dwarf existing into a day if lucky, if not: week or decade. Parking ticket intentionally lost in sedan trunk the new: kiddo feeling exciting summer is coming–now gone: like baby teeth / Pluto’s title being planetary. Aging means most conversations where we’re from or where we’d want to be if there were some pumice-weightless galaxy liberated of time punch, obsessive revelation that evening sky pretty apricot burgundy only cause the neighbors’ neighbors’ neighbors’ hometown is burning. At least you got a job. At least if present then not suffering so as the asteroid hurtles you see white puff jet trail as unhooked pearl necklace rests on atmosphere felt, not path future destroying.

 

 

 

Self Aware in Love

 

Questions stick: invisible familiar burrs,
rough legible like braille: thoughts about
thinking to undo before what could become
becomes. 2-sided sheet: hiring paperwork
flips to retirement. When is next ambush
in the brain on the brain which backdoors
to no geographic cure? Be clear: you give
you food poisoning. Any relationship 17
relations on each side, at least. Many boys:
one to touch your wrist & one to possess
your dad, out new lips he says I see you.
Sometimes the Us must carry shaky ladder
single-armed. Sometimes the sidewalk
of infatuation a hologram overlaid
with fearing being un-wived before
the wiving. Before the wiving: desire
to attend your own funeral where crowd
lauds, cries while your widower imagines
how better the attention at his burial.

 

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Austin Beaton studied Spanish at the University of Oregon, where he was a finalist for the Walter and Nancy Kidd Memorial Writing Competition in Poetry. His work has appeared in Boston Accent, (b)OINK, Porridge Magazine and elsewhere. He lives near the ocean in San Luis Obispo, California where he swallows figs and gives nicknames.

this year our edges aren’t so perforated. why do i sweat over your ownership when it chafes under my collar? i’m learning to eat your stories, mastering the delicacy with all my hackles raised. turns out i got buffeted, but this is to be expected.

was i ever a beautiful alien? i didn’t open my eyes and never found out. i want to feel like judd nelson but am a person who cuts their own hair. one day it will not hurt to think about and i’ll put this aside for flavored water sponsorship. when you tell me about my body as a solid object, it reminds me of a yolkless egg. not everyone experiences ego death, or can live two inches in front of their head. it’s easier to say, here are all things i cannot think and that is who i am.

 

i love exposing myself to your vivisecting, the exploratory research into our combined future. witness us coagulating, sewing a legacy onto my shoulder. witness me stretched across the gap of the roof, showing you a blood moon. i break my nose and don’t give you up, but why won’t you let me? despite frothing at the mouth again, we are good to each other in ways like taste.

 

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Mal Young is a poet constantly overheating in Los Angeles, CA. She is the editor of Dirt Children, an experimental literary magazine, and has had work published in print and online. You can follow her on twitter @upstreamculotte. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Elizabeth lives in Minnesota.