For information about the writers, see About the Artists on left hand menu. To return to the top at any time, click on a ^ symbol found at the end of any writer name in bold.

1 . 'Keeper,' Adam Wargacki^

I am the keeper of the books.
But hold them only to exhaust
Their lines and burn them with my looks.
In flame no proof or poem is lost,
But kept distilled in vapors thin
And spirits purified for when
The keeper and books are crossed.
I bind the smoke and breathe it in.

Released, my words aloft ascend
Like incense offered in the evening.
My sins my litanies amend,
In hallowed clouds I cant and sing.
My voice, for heaven's height to win
I seek to wrap in smoky rings.
My prayers as floating fogs begin,
I hold them and am held within.

Upon my touch, the torches blaze.
All cities at my reach are razed.
My hands a warrior's weapon bear.
On breast, a battle wound I wear.
The heat and haze of war I hold
About me on the battle field.
And from marauding mists of old
I rise, weapon ready for to wield.

I run, and course like a gazelle
Who from the fire flees and hides.
Beneath a sacred pool I dwell
And wash the ashes from my sides.
Now riverbed and waterfall
Am I. And as my height expands
The waters swell. But most of all
The majesty my arc commands
Grows great, quenching fires with its fall,
It smothers embers, coals and brands
For heat and smoke it may enthrall.

2 . 'Bridge to Blue,' Kevin Richards^

He saw his death like a bridge to blue
That would not be quiet even for a second.
Echoing in and out of sense and tunnel
It etched a path strung in urgency and calm.

She had seen it too and brought blanket to dust
And breathing to thawed intention:
To breathe is to give the scarecrow shade.

His mind -- a blue lagoon of algae terror
Where the past does not seem to care
If gills draw in breath or doom.

Now walking across, he sees below the surface
And today will rise with the sun.

3 . "When It's Time for Bed," Sabrina Mauritz^

As my warm thighs and back slip
between sheets, each hair
stands straight from the shock cold.
Hot chills run with
your callused hand.

Soft Chin and Sandpaper Skin dance
as you linger mint in my mouth until
I taste your burnt breath,
the hot ash that gum can't cover.
My eyes swell as that
weight in my chest grows heavy.
I know--
next our lids will
rise as light and lashes
dazzle our eyes.

4 . 'Davy, West Virginia,' Rod Aminian^

We could have easily left
for an urban embrace:
dancing, cafes, anonymity.
A tight, tiny apartment
in the smoke-ridden city.
Menial employment until we
saved up to start our own shop.

But you were too bound
to folk lyrics,
church Sundays and the
soil where your
parents' parents' parents rest.

Ebbed savings turned the
soot from our city to
coal on your face.

Now, I suppose
it isn't all that bad
to be married to
this town--
this
dolorous,
wretched town.

5 . 'All Good Things Must Come to an End,' Jon Corrigan^

Birds are delicate,
cold metaphors,
far too hollow-boned
for us.
I imagine your hand.
Its stretched webbing on tendons,
a batwing,
balled in defiance of day,
wrapped in the calming sonar of peach skin.

It awakens: nocturnal, hungry.

In the predawn blue it returns
after feeding, spread
to span, gliding up
my chest, sleepily touching my
mouth, and heaving me to
midnight
heights. We are drunk
or rabid with the effluvia of September.

6 . 'Spurge,' Lindy Dentinger^

He sits not even smoking
his cigarette, a skinned finger
with hairs winding, rising only
to disappear in the dusk gone night.

Engines tunnel his ear wells,
as gravel sprays from rubber tread
on the road near his back
porch every so often. His eyes dart
above an open mouth and settle

on an old tree. Misanthropic limbs
twist at the top to form a near
circle. Without the birds he can hear
the back of his mind wriggling.
There were times this meant nothing.

Now, the small crab-tuft lawn
opens into a white-topped pasture
overgrown. On his lap a pamphlet
explaining the transhumance of noxious

weeds--one car with windows down
can spread Leafy Spurge cross
country. This is how, he thinks,
sitting on a green plastic lawn
chair in the middle of nowhere

he is connected with that car
that never came back.

7 . 'Untitled,' Anne Pauw^

This whole time
I've been a tourist
In a foreign coffee shop

Educated
To speak only
In stock phrases.

"What kinds of pastries do you sell?"
"How much does it cost?"
"No, no. That's too much"

I smile too big
And talk too loud

On the bus to the airport
I clutch all my belongings,
Tossed in a plastic shopping bag.

8 . 'Puzzles,' Eric Kincanon^

This has happened before.

Last winter, late in the evening
I was doing the crossword.
I'd gotten good at these over
the last four years
Usually finishing
but never recalling Spanish for Gold.

Rising from the couch,
half pleased with my effort
I was stopped
just outside the kitchen doorway
The bright kitchen lights half lit me
as I watched you

Putting the last of the dishes in the washer,
I knew just how you would grab the dish rag,
How you would wipe the counters
And put the crumbs in the trash.

Silent and still, I stood
In the partial darkness
The puzzle at my side.
And I had this feeling
that is different than love
different than joy
The feeling only a score of years can give.

9 . 'Olives,' Marcy Ray^

Olive had never owned a car, and she wasn't a very good driver either. Not because she was a woman, but because she was Olive. So she walked. On her daily walks to some café in town, for she never went to the same coffee shop twice in the same week, she would often stop by Kathleen's house to pick up her friend's young daughter. Olive liked the idea of being a single working mother, but she didn't like the idea of something that would so permanently attach her to one man. So while she was single, she was neither a mother nor working at the time. Had Kathleen known how
confusing these excursions were going to be for the development of her little one she never would have consented to the outings with Auntie Olive. But like most people Kathleen was in the dark when it came to her friend.

She was amazed the first time she ever saw Olive where glasses; she had no knowledge that she wore contact lenses.

"Sure I do," Olive replied to her friends comment. "Worn ‘em ever since the fourth grade. Couple days ago my eyes started buggin' me pretty awful. Finally I went to the eye doctor and he said I have some sort of infection of the cornea. I'll be back in glasses for the next few weeks while it clears up."

In earlier years Olive had spent hours in front of a mirror inspecting the movements of her pried-open eyeballs. They seemed to be the portals to the world inside her head, and she was somewhat frightened that the inside could look out on her, but she had no knowledge of what went on inside. In short, she was disgusted by eyeballs and would choose to go blind before she'd ever come close enough to put contacts in them. The glasses were of course just for costume.

 "I'll have my usual," she said when she reached the counter of Victoria's Espresso

"I'm sorry ma'am I'm new here," chirped the little bird behind the cash register.

"Well," Olive huffed with a mighty roll of her eyes. A head popped up from behind the counter and spoke.

"A 16oz chai latte, was it?" She was guessing of course, she had never seen the lady
either, but anything to take the blame off of Robin.

"Yes, thank heavens someone knows what's going on. I've had the worst day so far. My car broke down on my way back from the daycare so I've had to carry my little one all the way home. Her father's not in the picture, you see. I just needed to stop in here for some friendly faces and a little rest."

"It's coming right up ma'am."

Olive knew nothing of coffee let alone a chai whatnot, but she liked the idea of coffeehouses. So she selected a four-person table for her and her young companion where they were likely to be in the way.

"Excuse me, will you be needing this chair?" asked a young man who looked quite in
touch with the coffeehouse vibe.

"Oh, no. No," she replied. "A friend of mine will be joining us later but I came a few hours early to write."

"So you're a writer, that's cool."

"No, a musician. I came her to compose; I guess I should have said. I find this particular atmosphere absolutely conducive to the creative spirit. It is fabulous. Very rich."

"Um, yes. So I can take the chair for now?"

"By all means, and, please, have an exquisite day."

With furrowed brows, the man removed the chair to his own table, and shrugged away all acquaintance with Olive.
* * *
It was at one of her quarterly trips to a laundromat that she saw a flyer on the bulletin board advertising a job as a phone operator for a shady mobile phone company named Communication Cellular. For quite some time she had been staring at the bulletin board opposite where she sat on the washing machine that was cycloning her third load of clothes. This was the only paper she saw. Perhaps because it was identical to the color of her spearmint gum she continually snapped to the annoyance of the man in the next row, or perhaps it was the way the flyer breathed off the board
and softly floated back down every time a gust came sneaking through the opened door. For whatever reason Olive chose to see this flyer, something inside her—besides her gum—snapped. She decided to get a job. She bumped herself off of the washer and snatched the lively flyer, and quickly grabbing whatever clothes she had already stuffed back in the garbage sack, she walked out.

Three weeks later she was working next to a squeamish balding man named Lawrence whose cubicle was decorated with one 4x6 of his wife and two daughters, oh and himself. He was relieved to the point of worshiping her when Olive moved in next to him. The tattooed mass of muscles she replaced had daily reminded Lawrence of his three hours spent in jail when he was 17 and caught with marijuana in his locker. He had wondered why those boys wanted to give him highlighters. Compared to his old neighbor he perceived Olive as being relatively harmless. Olive's first day on the job she saw him eating from a jar of Greek Olives at his desk during the 15 minutes he allotted for lunch.

"Hey," she said pointing to the jar. "My name is Olive."

Lawrence looked at her in disbelief and Olive had to check herself. No, she really was Olive. She considered it safe to proceed, albeit cautiously.

"I always preferred the black ones myself. The finger puppet thing and all. Did you ever wonder why olive only describes the color green? They are totally neglecting the black olives. I think there should be an olive black and an olive green. That way it's all fair."

"But there's really only one color of black. It doesn't need a descriptor."

"What," she laughed. "There are a ton of blacks: raven black, coal black, blue black—that's the color of my hair dye. Lets see what else—night sky black."

"That's blue," he interrupted nervously, and sort of longing for the tattooed mass of muscles to return. At least he never confused him, meaning he never talked to him.
To Lawrence's great luck Olive decided to make a list of all the different colors of black, this left him alone to finish his lunch, one little jar full of many olives. She had been working there for a month and a half come 4th of July weekend. Being a relatively new employee Olive was on the schedule, and Lawrence was always on the schedule. It was just after Olive's lunch break at 4:30 in the afternoon when Bill made his rounds through the office.

"Terrence," he said in a hollow voice, which to Olive sounded like a fabulous impression of the Walrus from Disney's Alice in Wonderland. "How are you this evening?"

"Fine, sir," his reply skittered across the air like mice from a cage.

"Excellent, we'll see you tomorrow then."

"Um, yes, sir."

Olive tilted her head as she watched Bill walk away. Give him an umbrella and he
practically would be the walrus, she thought.

"Hey Lawrence," she said, peeping over the cubicle wall and trying to shake off the
image of Bill. "How long have you been working here?"

"About three years, I suppose."
"And he still doesn't know your name?"
"Oh no, he knows my name."
"No he doesn't he just called you Terrence."
"Well, yeah, that's what he calls me."

Olive rested her head on her folded arms, which rested on the cubicle wall separating her from Lawrence. She looked down at his little 4x6 photo family. He had changed the picture. Throughout the year he would continue to change the picture according to the holiday of the moment. Olive blinked at the little photo family and went back to work.

10 . 'March Madness,' Sherman Alexie^

"All the interests of my reason, speculative, as well as practical, combine in the
three following questions: 1. What can I know? 2. What ought I to do? 3. What
may I hope?"
-Immanuel Kant

"I can't believe it. I just watched that replay like he was going to make the shot
this time."
-Randall Olsen

When Batista missed the shot, I wanted
To punch God. Lord, why did you steal the game
From these young men, these Bulldogs, now haunted

By reasonable ghosts who misquote Kant
(Why did you hope?) as they rattle their chains?
When Batista missed the shot, I wanted

To know what I ought to do for the gaunt
Adam Morrison who, despite his fame,
Is only a young man; He will be haunted

Forever by this loss. Taunting and taunted,
Morrison collapsed to the floor in sorrowful rage
When Batista missed the shot. I wanted

To know what I could know, but felt daunted
By a godless God. Lord, can you explain
Why you've pushed these young men down the haunted

Descent into the hell of self? Vaunted
God, absurd God, why must they prove their faith?
When Batista missed the shot, I wanted

Him to shoot again. I wanted him to flaunt
Space and time, make the hoop, and win the game
For these young men, these Bulldogs. I'm haunted

By missed shots and missing fathers. I lost
My dad to vodka, but I kept his name.
I miss him most in March. I always want
To call him and talk about the big games,

About the Shakespearean comedy
And tragedy of the NCAA.
We talked hoops because it was easy
To show emotion; It was the only way

To show emotion. If he were alive,
He'd say, "The world is filled with white boys
Who know how to lose and how to survive,
But we Injun boys just make rhythmic noise."

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of hopeless and blood and orphan and scar.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of broken front teeth and wrecked cars.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of losing food money to better cards.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of the halfway tattoo, the unstarted start.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of dialysis kidney and congestive heart.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of vomit and weep and sugar and yawn.

My father, my drum, you were the all-star
Of hover and quit and frozen and stop.

11 . 'Slainte to my Family,' Eleri Oley Kerian^

The faery children,
the wee bairn, we were,
golden blonde curls
haloed around our heads.
We were trouble, and so,

we flipped Grandma's
coffee table over,
a boat to cross
the beige-waved ocean,
away from the Guinness
and the lilted Sé do bheatha a Mhuire's
and the talk of being "oppressed
for eight hundred years."
From our mahogany boat,
we watched the enemy
with rouge smeared across her cheeks.

She spied us through her Waterford crystal
glass filled with Baileys,
"Tis herself!" pinched my cheeks,
and "A stor mo chroi" squeezed yours.
Blue-eyed, pearly teethed innocence
squealed and bit down hard
on the offending wrinkly hand.

We were not the mischief,
but it was in our blood.
We were faeries—
with no wings.
Later on,
we sailed away
since we couldn't fly.
And they had whispered that
we still looked just like wicked tinkers—
but we didn't care even though we grew up
to find out what that meant.

12 . 'Persimmon Lust,' Laura Collins^

I salivate just staring at it,
oozing succulence
skin, sun-roasted to candy sweetness.
I anticipate its meaty flesh,
at once firm and dissolvable;
fused with my mouth-juices,
it melts to liquid.

Callously swiping the fruit from the basket
her polished nails nearly pierce flesh.

13 . 'Mexico,' Sierra Golden^

You know how the mind
 Wanders?
Like the ADD child that says
Wanna go ride bikes
If you ask how old he is?

That's where I was,
Sitting on a wrinkling bus
 Rattling
Through Z shaped bends
With streams of rain dripping
 On it and into it
Like the streams of chatter running
 Through it.

A tidbit of each held my appetite.
My troublesome mind
 Content
With shuffling through the endless stack
 Of talk.

But out the window
Across the valley
Atop the hill
 Stood a tree.

Like the person I am
 In my dreams.
Small to the world
Yet always important.
Drenched in the gray
Yet shining its dark colors.

It passed.
And I said to my neighbor,
"Is the tequila really free?"

14 . 'Spring,' Kenlyn McGrew^

Dawn breaks on falling crystal.
Beside me, she sleeps
drawing measured breaths of air
from the warmed room.
How still she lies in my shadow!
The house aches under the snow
filling our windowpane.

On the highway, cars meet and pass, pass and meet.
Their headlights stretch over the snow to us,
and she shifts in her sleep.
I rest against her
and match my heart to hers:
Keep pace! keep pace! keep pace!

15 . 'You'd Make Good Poetry,' Kim Knees^

Your singing blue eyes
distort the surrounding music
as we dance until dawn
and let our bodies collapse
with drunken exhaustion.
Your fingers methodically jazz
across my back
like they would on the fret board
of your lonesome guitar.

Tonight I am your instrument
and I'll become great lyrics.

16 . 'The Wormsmith,' Abraham Wenning^

Dark nails pinch on down, the wormsmith
showing a specimen.
He generates the fresh undulators;
decomposition breeding bait
to kill fin and build the village.
Something writhing about life,
yet sacrificial within the school--
too much in, the soil, the
dangling, grappling hook,
the ends of mean life
his trade
essential to such seaside souls
he snips the worms in half
and shoos away the gulls.

17 . 'Untitled,' Emmet Tribolet^

The wake of her landing improved my senses
I was shaking off my old slumber when
I first saw her, hair and flower tucked
behind her ear. Two weeks behind me;
I still could not forget, and
how hard I tried.
The dance we held was my alibi, and
though I tripped over my feet
I smiled and took her mirrored curve,
wrapped it up and tucked it behind my cares

And though she doesn't smile for me,
reach for me, call to me, the ripples
rift space for the clouds and the
burnt ocean hues I see. They realize in me
a new understanding, sitting, sitting.
Here I hear grass rustle past,
a bird's beating heart, smell the ocean's salt.

18 . 'Fermentation,' Dominic Bruno^

I gladly swallowed down the sadness pill
presented between clean, small fingers.
It tasted simply like her tears--
pinched salt, on my tongue, that lingers.

Within the now-sharpened universe, I
found fragrant drippings of life in the air,
which stored in labeled Ziploc bags,
I salted and saved for a year

or more--until they burst the plastic seams
and gushed out as wine or maybe vinegar.

19 . 'The Isaac Giants,' Isaac Melum^

You stand on the shoulders of giants
Isaac--
men are not giants
much like the inner gulch of indigestion is acids working
and apostels are a stone's cry
against the Bible's fall--
from heaven with a plunk.
We are flesh and not a tower
so stand on me like you stood
on giants--
will you see I'm atlantic or the cool abyss?
was there ever fire on the traps of my mind's
furnace, walls meeting in corners
until you are forced to search further
primarily falling with your eyes to the floor
but there is no floor
just falling
until you are only curious of my scalp patterns.

20 . 'Le Jardin,' Ian Sullivan^

They watch from every angle
Prying neighbors scrutinizing every detail of the woman's garden
Her rows of perfect beds are trophies of the gardener's success
She has cultivated nothing but perfection
That is what they believe
Yet the entire summer the proud woman has worried about a single rose
in her garden
On the outside it is a beautiful, vibrant, and very rare flower as orange as a
flame.
Upon closer inspection there is one bud that threatens her bush, thus her
perfect garden
She waits with baited breath hoping that no one will notice
She allows the other flowers to grow taller trying to hide her
embarrassment
If the need comes she may have to deal with a gap in her yard.

21 . 'At Night,' Tebria Stone^

A piercing scream
A slammed door
Words,
I've heard before.

Glasses shattering
My brother weeping
These too,
I've heard before.

The comfort of silence
Encloses my bed
I know my mother will come
And repeat what he said.

I will tell her I've heard it before

I turn the pages,
To Green Eggs and Ham
A knock upon the door interrupt Sam I am.

I hide in my imagination.
As she sneaks into my world,
My tears falling on the fox in the box
Realizing,
I don't want to hear her anymore.

22 . 'Roses,' Elizabeth Stauder^

The roses dry up,
Delicate, thin flakes of being, layers and layers of them.
They are still so beautiful, the whitish yellow cheeks, a hint of glow,
The wavering curves, like hips,
The cluster of red at the top like
What could have once been a
Soft spongy opening to the womb,
Red red red as dry blood,
The lips half open,
But
Parched.

Like-
The cold dead body of an
Intensely beautiful woman,
Who,
While alive knew not her beauty,
Who wrapped herself in layers of tight clothing,
Wore her hair in a hard bun,
Kept her eyes low and smiled, sometimes,
The quiver on her lips like a nervous bird flitting ...

Now her body is naked,
And ripples like water as she is carried.
Like luminescent sea kelp
Or wet starlight, it glows,
With vulnerability and
The touch of wind that
Climbs each small hair and
Kisses the pores.

The thick mane of chestnut curls
Falls back like a live tapestry,

Her head tilted so far that
She seems to drink the sky,
And, for the first time,
A blush sits, blossoming, on her cheeks.

It is the same when I look at you,
Dear one,
All of you, my dears.

The intense, blood-red, beauty,
Frozen, in jagged lines,
Waiting
to be thawed

Trapped, in bone-dry layers,
Waiting, waiting,
to drink.

Well,
Here is my breath
And
Here is my breast:
Feed.

23 . 'and when lushlips love and pucker' Lindsey Pierce^

and when lushlips love and pucker
against cheeks in the dark and
only speckles of luz
sprawl (cast on the wallsfacescarpet--plush)

and then globefingers clench,tingle upon
knees under shiny tabletops in coffee
joints (with canopies and ambience that i and you like)

when tiny glittereyes and giant oceaneyes connect curious amongst oval
asheyes and under covers wrinkled-
warmth. (i make my resolution and you are resolved)

then her spider fingers claw crinkles in
your shirt and you let her ebony hair fan
across your face and make sounds in the muggy black
(and when you sprawl your spider fingers across my thigh
 in the morning don't ask me how i slept)

24 . 'Limit,' Chris Heinrich^

James slid into the first seat on the school bus. He could have taken one of
the seats in the back, coveted by the other riders as the farthest from the driver,
but he didn't even though he certainly was the biggest and oldest and had the
most right to it since Alice had stopped riding.
James hated the bus ride. The people, the noise, the seats, the broken heater.
Reading and writing were impossible because the bus shook worse than most
thrill rides. There was nothing to enjoy and everything to hate. He took the
front seat because it shortened his ride. The driver didn't have to wait while he
made his way to the back before starting, and he was first off when it stopped.
The worst part, though, was the two snots who sat immediately behind him, a
girl and a boy, both probably three or four years younger than him. James never
bothered to learn their names. He never talked about them with anyone, so
there was no reason. Perhaps he should have. Then what follows might have
been averted.
It had started a few weeks earlier. Maybe it had begun as a dare, but, for no
reason that James could discern, they took the seat behind his and started to
tap his head as if it were some malicious game. One would jump up, touch him
and drop back down, giggling. It always happened at least once a ride, or, if the
two were feeling particularly courageous, James would put up with it as many as
seven or eight times.
Alice had given up at this point. Despite having classes with her, they weren't
particularly close, and James only realized what was going on when he heard
her scream, "Stop touching me!" and rush off the bus in tears a week into the
school year.
James thought himself better than her. Only once did he turn around to ask
them to please stop, and he refused to take another seat.
He never told the bus driver. She had done nothing after Alice's outburst,
and James doubted she would do anything in his case. It never really hurt, so he
endured.
It became a progressive game. After the second week, it wasn't just a touch.
It was more of a slap. Then they started throwing things, moving from crumpled
paper balls to pencils and pennies in five days.
Today they tried something new. They dropped a textbook on his head.

I'm sick of this.
I need to shock them, be fast. If they cry out and someone hears, it's over.
James moved quicker than either kid had ever seen. The book hadn't even hit
the floor by the time he was facing them from above the seat. The boy's head
he slammed into the window, the girl's into the seat. Before the pain could register,
James took the girl by the hair and the boy by the hand, twisting his fingers
back. Not too hard or far back. They need to know it can hurt more.
He forced both of them up, out of their seats, so their faces were no more
than an inch from his. They never struggled or gave the slightest of whimpers.
James had never seen two people more terrified.
They must hear every word.
"I asked you once before to stop. Now I'm telling you. Do not touch me.
Do not throw things at me. Do not say anything to me. Ever."
There was no wrath in James' voice, no sarcasm, no tremble. Nothing but the
desire to be heard and obeyed.
That was Mrs. Parson's. My stop's next. I need to finish this.
"Stay as far from me as possible, and we'll never have to go through this
again." James didn't bother asking if they understood. Their eyes hadn't left his
for a moment.
As the bus drew to a stop, James brought his face even closer to theirs and
said in a voice only shades above a whisper, "Congratulations. You found my
breaking point." He let go and slid his backpack on as he left the bus.
Going up the stairs to his house, James walked with no less composure than
any other day, but his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

25 . 'Your Hands,' Danielle Loparco^

I love your hands,
They're perfect to me.
Words fail me in describing them,
I could never do them justice,
But I do know what I want you to do with them.
I wish you'd hold my hand.
Our fingers entwined,
Holding each other in that moment,
Feeling complete in a simple gesture.
Our fingers locking ourselves into each other
In casual ecstasy.
Forever doesn't feel that far away,
Time escapes us as we consume each other.
Your hands are like an open window
That allows the breeze to blow the curtains back.
Hands that have wiped tears from my eyes,
Tears filled with love and fear.
That was the day I said, "I love you,"
A day I thought would be our last.
You didn't say anything,
But you touched my face with your hands.
Your hands were comforting in a way
That I have never known.
A comfort that was a blanket of relief,
Which wrapped around my whole body,
Protecting me from everything in the world.
Save me from the unknown again,
Touch me and let me know that you love me.

26 . 'Riverfront Park,' Katie Mulcaire-Jones^

Hey woman resting there,
orange tints in your pig-tailed hair,
may I sketch a piece of you, would you care?
I could come at it harsh-
like your cough, cough, cough
Or sharp-
the way your lungs cut in and out,
or just neglect patter, because you don't know where home is.
Not much sleep, sweet?
Yes I have the time (strange, we spoke)
too bad the tree giving you shade
hid you face.
Not even a smile can shrink the rift
between strangers,
like a paper cut or canyon
The schism's wide as a lifetime, deep,
and dark as poverty (I don't know poverty).
Maybe a smile is too shaky a bridge anyway,
just a two-by-four stretched over a gorge.
So woman, with your p.j. pants and backpack pillow,
let's share this patch of grass.
Rest in your shade while I think…
that I am sorry I presume your life, (I don't like to be judged).
It's just that,
I despise ditches.

27 . 'Madonna and Child,' Diana Mena^

As a child
I was drunk with the starry void of heaven.
An inconsistent passion
that I dreamed of in past dreams.
And I remember knowing this feeling.

Everyday I'm more afraid of my past
than the day before.
Every funeral is his father's funeral.
And to dust we would return.
You will have to stay forever, Virgen,
unlike you,
I only have half a lifetime of light.

The answer to why men are afraid of death avoids me
Yet I know that the dead also age
and the wind whispers like voices and tears on regret.
Yours is the most haunted past.

You are the tragic look of the Madonna,
who I loved as a child
and who I envy today for her serenity.
There is no such thing as overly gorgeous roses
And I offer you lavender rosas
that remind me of moons on the coast.
And in a wounded voice
I sing you a poem
and I plead with the wind
so that you will hear my story.

I would like to forgive the past
and forget that day
when I announced
that I was no longer a poet.
And the older the evening became
the longer I prayed to a creamy woman
who had faded into the walls.
And my language consisted of lullabies,
as if the words were an endearment.

At midnight,
this glorious light
warms the inside of your skin
and you remind me of my mother.
The sky more a brightness than a color
serenades your pale serenity.

You seem to have released your own tears
in each of us.
A row of women who offer you
breathtaking roses as a tribute to their faith.
They are stripped of their hearts
and draped in smiles
that conceals the truth of their grief and their loneliness.

In the dawn,
I hope to find you.
I will offer you unwashed truths
during this heartbreaking twilight.
The way men grieve.
In life I have been an incurable romantic
and the weight of the years
is causing me to question my worthiness.
Because time,
of which there was never enough,
seems to have contributed to the loneliness of recent years.

I have been the daughter
who has chosen the wrong men to love,
But don't take him away from me, Virgencita,
If our very existence is tragic.

28 . 'The Globe,' John Breedlove^

Cleopatra glides across archaic
Stage in eternal Eastern gown, unseen
By Roman Pillars. Perplexed audience
Is frozen, uncomprehending newfangled
Neglection that has melted Roman sanctions.
I see her soaring into proud Roman soil
Like terrorist plane collision, dissolved
In mid-air. She remains impending over
The Western rubble, unintelligible
To Roman orientalist perception

29 . 'Endless Cycle' Andy Lundquist^

Alone, lying beside a placid lake lays Lily,
Whose whole soul begs to be nurtured.
Its time honored endurance is testament to her grace.
Yet this flower has a base infection and sour consequence,
Awaiting. With an overlooked inward sliver,
Protruding out, its beauty has yet to be burned.

With silent temptation and inner collapse she will burn
Sour seeking another shoulder. She, Lily,
In mad pursuit and possession, she plays with her sliver,
Begging to be plucked, her efforts to one day nurture.
Yet despite her countless pleasures, the consequence
Remains the same; torture. Proving her false grace.

Luring eyes, sultry stance, give way to outer grace,
While inside no fire of passion or love burns.
Love against lust, glory versus consequence,
The same battle fought over and over in Lily,
Yet the lesson to be learned is never nurtured.
Still she seeks peace and prods the sliver.

With each attempt at removing a sliver,
She continually finds no saving grace.
Cannot this flower be loved and nurtured,
Standing, with strength, not to be burn?
Is it her pride in her beauty like that of an Easter lily,
A calloused inner want that provides calloused consequences

Overwhelming desire overpowers and consequence
Repeats, again and again and again. The sliver,
Still anxious to be freed, to cleanse Lily.
Hope is strength, strength her only grace.
Until her hope directed, her petals lie on a burner,
Continually tortured in her cycle, in no way nurtured.

Each soul, man or woman's, lives to be nurtured.
Lustful intentions breed murderous consequences.
A fire inside every soul longs to be tended and burn,
Draining the poison induced by the tiniest of slivers.
Confessing to lust that lies inside is the only means of grace,
Only then will inner and outer beauty flourish as a budding lily.

It is in Lily's humanly nature to love and nurture,
In her grace alone their could be no consequence,
But as long as a sliver infests, flames of sin will burn.