She walked away from the room numb
oblivious to the days that would come after, there would be consequences
to letting them touch her, she
there would be some. There would be
voices in the dark for years, flashbacks of hands
the sink of dread at the click of a door latched shut
sleepless nights. If I could have been there
I could have told her that even this all goes away
tell her about the better men she would meet
the children she would have, the way her husband would
hold her in his arms while they slept
years into their marriage. I would tell her
not to worry, not to regret
the singular, awfulness of that one short afternoon
that all roads, for her
would still lead to perfection.
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.
Stuck outside of Bakersfield at a truck stop
at night with the temperature at ninety-nine
with a few coins and a broken credit card
facing into the wind because turning my back
made my shirt like a sail, the smell of parched earth
and sere grass so strong I fought even the thought
of a match and words like ignition, passion, or strike,
saw a snake come to the asphalt on the dark side
of the lamppost, stretching as if to cool, and a crow
that landed a few feet away spreading its wings
for a brief moment of air conditioning.
I tried to sleep standing, waiting for morning
and Shell to authorize my card, but when dawn came
found myself sprawled on the pavement
like a drunk or a victim of a drive-by,
snake missing, crow coming closer,
more beginning to land.
Jeff Burt lives in California with his wife amid the redwoods. He works in mental health. He has work in ucity, Eclectica, Rabid Oak, and Williwaw Journal. He was the featured 2015 summer issue poet of Clerestory, and won the 2019 Heart poetry prize.
The Last Church
A radio playing loud then soft
_____allegro melting to adagio
__________as its batteries wither
as particulate clouds redden
_____when the evening comes seeking a shadow
__________under yellowed leaves
as smoke rises over what once
_____were glowing coals
__________before the rain fell
as a bard recites poetry from the pulpit
_____and lovers leave their graves
__________to be buried in pews.
Toll the bell in the steeple.
_____Man has lived his day
__________and the sun sets.
Barry Green is retired and lives in Ashland, Virginia. He had a number of poems published in the 1970s, ceased writing for 40 years, and is now back at it.
Let’s have an argument,
embellish our stances
with golden tongues and defiance.
Climb up the tattered fence
of history and say trite phases
like the truth of the matter is.
Make reference to statistics
and research-driven articles
from academic journals and the Times.
This is the same game we once played
at recess. Go ahead, jump over
two ropes swinging in opposition
until you trip over your own feet.
Maureen Sherbondy’s poems have appeared in The Oakland Review, Prelude, Calyx, and other journals. Her forthcoming book is Dancing with Dali (February, 2020—FutureCycle Press). Lucky Brilliant, her first young adult novel, will be published in September, 2020. Maureen lives in Durham, NC. www.maureensherbondy.com
Karl Miller‘s writing has appeared in numerous periodicals, including RE:AL, Portland Review, and Cold Mountain Review. His play, A Night in Ruins, was produced Off Off Broadway in 2013; “Elena,” a novelette, was published in 2018. A 2016 Best of the Net nominee, Miller lives in Coral Springs, FL.
a Typhoon in April
The scent of a foreigner’s potpourri decorates the young dolls whose excessively tattoo shoes mark them as impossible housewives. These grateful and guilty onyx tinted officers of excess melt inside a conclusion of access to modern prescriptions and jealousies.
_____Their hostess, Yui, suspects the compulsory motives of beauty, lust and job – scabs from lost letters now burrowed epidermal deep by half-eaten loves. “Everybody is a mistake, a victim, a ghost but with us girls a suspect is underground.”
_____Warm tea melts the bias patterned dream of a Sunday in Yokohama, “No, it won’t stop, inconsistencies, after-parties, vacations.”
_____Relaxed and excessive, Miyumi’s dangerous tears collapse a second wall and the whole peeks at rope persuasions and disproportionate motives of struggle and compulsive trust in a remodelled kitchen house.
_____Yui’s clothes scream future but are jaundiced by art, “Quit watching and arrange a mistake.”
_____Miyumi mulls access to a horrible act, a goblin of a storm that lashes to rip, to lacerate and to expel the second suspect in her house.
_____Somebody gratefully lassos her fancy, “No one loves the job of an immigrant harp.”
By early morning Geoffrey Miller is a writer of flash and science fiction, some of which has appeared in Crack the Spine, Midway Journal, and the Ilanot Review. By night he is the editor of NUNUM and a very slow jogger.
I am sorry we argued.
We mime our morning ritual
of coffee, burnt toast and honey.
I don’t want to leave like this.
When I return,
you grip me like a glass of Beaujolais
that could slip through your hands.
You get drunk on me.
Marjorie Sadin is a nationally published poet with poems in such magazines as The Little Magazine, Blaze Vox, Big Windows Review, and the Jewish Women’s Literary Annual. She has five books of poems in print including a chapbook, The Cliff Edge, and a full- length book, Vision of Lucha about struggle and survival, love, death, and family. Recently, Marjorie published a new chapbook, Struck by Love. She lives and reads her poetry in the Washington DC area.
Situational awareness is just so important. Even a momentary lapse can result in a 9-year-old in a black-and-white striped Halloween costume being mistaken for an actual skunk and shot. Now crime scene technicians in full-body coveralls are photographing the bloodstains on the front walk, dusting for prints, scooping shell casings into evidence bags. As the shooter gets dragged off in handcuffs, his wife collapses on the ground, convulsed by sobs. What is inside is going to come out despite the efforts of a nice neighbor to calm her. And the moon? It looks exactly like the blade of a scythe.
The old woman who told fortunes in a booth on the boardwalk turned the last card over. King of spades. She frowned at the card. Then she predicted I would die screaming, but screaming in the voice of the opera star she called Placebo Domingo. Nowadays the more that is reported, the less everyone actually knows. Ninety-nine percent of humans have been inducted into the bedlam of complex systems. When machines operators are overcome by fatigue and confusion, the machines are capable of operating themselves. Anyone can get a gun. It takes a white whale with a grudge to use it.
Mother died in the “nuthouse,” as people called it then. I might be better known today if I didn’t have such difficulty talking about it in something other than code. All these years later, searchlights are still probing the sky, supposedly for a ghost squadron of kamikaze pilots, but who really knows what’s going on? It could be the government is afraid every airplane flying overhead will crash. I lost my faith in portable electronic devices when missionaries went looking for souls to convert among horses and dogs. I imagine it was a strange time, too, to be a poodle.
Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and Unlost.