Transfigured

- Allison Grayhurst

Each day I wear my grief
like metal mesh. I see you
as spirit burdened to speak.
You try to comfort this field
of wounds. You tend the amputees
and bound the screaming with soft song.
But it is hard for you to stay,
to not let go completely into the light.
I let you go. I make this year my bridge.
Though my heart has ruptured and cannot heal,
though forever overcome with this sadness
of our love silenced by brutal, unnamable death,
I will build a new house, dive with both hands
into my yard until the evergreens grow.
I will contain you as more than memory —
in my harvest will bloom many sunflowers
of your great generosity. And your fiery blood
will sprout the roots and flesh of passion fruit.
The maple tree will grow large like you, protecting all
within its strong and tender shadow. And children
will be drawn to this yard, to play there amongst
the tall dramatic grass, and then sit still to watch
with wonder the many shades of sky, reflecting
the warmth of your paternal sun-setting colours.

The Houses of Parliament 1881

- Alan Catlin

Winslow Homer: watercolor

Darker shades of
grey on black,

industrial pollution
thickening into an

encroachment of night,
deadening last

silvering sunlight
on River Thames;

rowers bent about
their last diurnal

task, unaware of
ghost shadows

restructuring
distant shores

Steam Locomotive Before the Deluge

- Alan Catlin

in the manner of Turner 

An intensity of
yellow lights,

fallen moons
disperse forming

liquid black
clouds,

smog & smoke.

Dread machine’s
hoarse mechanical

breathe completely
withdrawn, silence

clings, the dark
moves its feral

eye

 

 

Rockwell Kent’s Killer Whales Resurrection Bay

- Alan Catlin

Almost surreal horizon
swathed in midnight sun

light,  a halo of primary
colors above white

snow peaks;
in the bay the whales

are breaching,
their songs echoing

across still
water.

 

Happy Monster

- Alec Solomita

There goes Godzilla, destroying the city.
Again. The glassed in poster in Davis Square
mirrors a see-through phantom me, looking
kind of squirrely as lesbians rattle by like
smug bumper cars and the tattooed man
in the sideshow is every other guy.
“In the Valley of the Lost,” the movie should be.
Reefer drifting like sweet exhaust.
Texters on the street who walk like dreamers.
The indoor life bruited about on the cellular sidewalk,
“Ah don’ care what that ho’ said! That bitch
is dead to me! You know I mean it!” As do we all,
young man, as do we all. Oh where are we?
Tokyo should be so crowded and who is
lonelier in a crowd than Godzilla?

I begin to grow. I begin to change. Hipsters
become alarmed as I become engorged, enlarged,
enhanced, happy. I swing my arm and the
fusion restaurant across the street crumbles.
Like Japanese extras, the ice cream strollers
scramble for safety, wherever that may be,
stumbling over each other (and their little dogs, too!)
terrified through their interesting eyewear.
Mike’s Pizza is gone with a back kick. And
the little shops I snuff with a thumb—Magpie,
Davis Squared, Buffalo Exchange,
JP Licks, Comikaze, Blue Shirt Café
Every move I make is a catastrophe.
Every step I take is a disaster movie:
blinding dust, heaping bricks, shattered glass,
the screams of the dying, the stench of the dead.
There goes Godzilla, destroying the city. Again.

 

Separation

- Michael Fisher

you should have the wine glasses left smokey with dust

I’ll take the ashtray from Spain

have the love seat, the one ripped side
can be fixed

it won’t cost much

think about the photos
loose knick-knacks
and the set of round black framed
mirrors
           still hung on the south wall

that leaves the wooden cutting board for chicken
I’ll take it I guess
                        you’re a vegetarian now

the china, a wedding
gift, shipped broken
we never returned, let’s
divide each jagged
piece, each sharp
point, find new use for
the shattered

Grace

- Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco

The second time,
I lied.

I told myself
that lying held a kind

of grace.

That night, I watched the thin-
toothed woods sit on the
rough lip of the road.

I couldn’t see
the tree roots reaching

toward some promise
there’d be water.

Cuddling in a Tauntaun

- Chara Kramer

This isn’t winter.
The winter I know of, you can play outside
without getting hypothermia.
But my raynaud’s is raynauding,
and all of my fingers burn an icy-cold white.

In real winter, the snow falls so delicately
that you can actually taste
half a teaspoon of melted ice—not water—
on your 98.6-degree tongue.

I’m the one with the Elmer Fudd hunting hat,
tie-dyed liners, luke-warm hand warmers,
and bright blue mittens on top—
so that grabbing my keys
is more of a contest than an ability.

Even Hoth wasn’t 19 degrees,
and Han wore a furry hood
like one of those kids in elementary school
who fights their mom on wearing something
so ridiculous to school. Because it’s uncool.

But I guess if Han did it, I could, too.
But now, no hugs or heaters, nor passionate kissing
will heat up the blood that refuses to boil inside my body.
And all I really want is a man with a lightsaber,
willing to slice open a Tauntaun to keep me warm.

How a Kiss Might Feel

- Chara Kramer

It starts slow, tempting;
warm air mixing between you two,
heating each other’s mouths.

Eyes flutter shut.

Lips, smooth and plump—fresh grapes in summer.
He gnaws on each grape.
Once or twice a twinge—he bites too hard,
but you play it off as a moan: he keeps going.
      Pulling at your lip,
             he draws you even closer.

            Slippery tongues battling, dancing, swirling
            around each other.
            Moist and supple, but coarse.

                      His tongue drives deep past your lips.
                      You can’t swallow.
                      Your jaw aches from the weight
                      of his pressure, his intensity.

                           Mouth on mouth violence:
                           Soak in as much moisture and soft lips as possible until
                      you finally sever
             the slightest bit.

      Your mouths, now barely touching,
      still graze tender, full lips,
      until his hot, heavy breath
forces your eyes open at last.

Seasons

- Peycho Kanev

*

The leaves on the branches are getting greener, inside them
quiet music sounds.
Into the empty sleeves of the shirts hanging on the wire,
time whistles.
The sky is a sketch of a blue canvas.

*

Sun’s notes dance in the fire of a major scale.
The stones breathe heavily. And the sky is getting heavier.
My personal “I” crumbles into billions of “Us”. Wheat bows
before the ground and falls asleep. There is no mystery.

*

Water falls upon the puddles. At some other place, which
we can’t see, the painter picks the brush. Brown decay. Dance
of the substances. There are tracks in the mud which remember
the oblivion. The dung beetle pushes and hides his own sun.

*

In each fireplace a small Prometheus is working hard.
Crystals lick the windows, the silence chew whiteness.
Through the keyholes into the hearts of the cats the big sleep
passes. Darkness. And there is nothing else.