{"id":2862,"date":"2018-04-29T20:48:37","date_gmt":"2018-04-30T00:48:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2862"},"modified":"2026-09-06T10:20:29","modified_gmt":"2026-09-06T14:20:29","slug":"summer-2018","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=2862","title":{"rendered":"

Summer 2018 Issue<\/p><\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"

 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n(Cover Photo Kiss My . . . <\/i> by J. Ray Paradiso)<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPaul David Adkins<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWEAVER THE WEATHERMAN ISSUES A TRAVEL WARNING
\nTO CERTAIN MIAMI NEIGHBORHOODS ON SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971
\n 
\n 
\nDon\u2019t go there.
\nEveryone is hot.
\n 
\nThe atmosphere\u2019s akimbo in some certain parts of town.
\n 
\nI usually talk the storms and sun.
\nThe station tells me everyone
\nwill listen; I\u2019ve been on the air for years.
\n 
\nIf you trust me just one time, make it today.
\nI\u2019m sorry for all the afternoons it rained on your picnics,
\nand thunder sent you scurrying off the golf course when I forecast mostly sunny.
\n 
\nYou had plans, and I broke them like batons would crack a rib,
\nthen it turned out bright and clear as you stormed within the house.
\nI\u2019ve been wrong one million trillion billion times, I know, but trust me just this once.
\n 
\nThe atmosphere\u2019s akimbo in some certain parts of town.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGina Marie Bernard<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPRIME
\n 
\nAt five
\n 
\nI embellished intoxicating rumors for mannequins
\nmincing sightless behind department store glass
\nwhile lifting the sequined hems of their cocktail shifts.
\n 
\nAt thirteen
\n 
\nI breathed invocations from the sanctuary of my room;
\nidolized the exposed models whose cowled eyelids
\nvowed ascension\u2014lithe consecrations in each paged pose.
\n 
\nAt twenty-three
\n 
\nI chinned the surface of Bass Lake, hovered above
\nthe thermocline, and envied my wife\u2019s pelvis\u2014the intricate play
\nof tendon and muscle gunnel pumping our Wenonah canoe.
\n 
\nAt thirty-seven
\n 
\nI stifled screams while counting down another New Year\u2019s
\nEve; spread my thorax\u2014like Adam\u2019s self-immolation\u2014
\nand fashioned myself from the blood-sloughed rib.
\n 
\nAt forty-one
\n 
\nthey scraped and sutured scrotal skin to my vaginal walls;
\nsalvaged the sensitive glans\u2014secure under its clitoral hood.
\nMy expectant mother joked about our prolonged labor pains.
\n 
\nNow forty-eight
\n 
\nI decline invitations to accompany my two daughters into Sephora;
\nI brush out each of my wigs, but fix them back on their canvas stands,
\nand regularly binge 24-hour news cycles in my rattiest groutfits.
\n 
\n 
\nSYLLABLES
\n 
\nMy thoughts, daughter cells,
\nhalve white-hot, divide;
\nkick quick, seek their light.
\n 
\nNot said, just felt\u2014hid,
\nbirthed of endured hurt,
\ndead inside their caul.
\n 
\nLost, I scrawl hate-laced
\ncurses, torch blessings,
\nscore my heart\u2014scar it.
\n 
\nGlut drugs, brown liquor;
\ncrouch, performing tricks,
\na slut kneeled behind
\n 
\ncars, and last call\u2019s closed
\ndoors. I smear sored lips,
\nwipe dirt from palm heels.
\n 
\nWrists sewn; sheer nylons
\nripped, slid down. Tell me
\nDoes this turn you on?<\/i>
\n 
\nEyes haunted, withdrawn:
\na face to be fucked,
\nspill your cum upon.
\n 
\nAnd I will allow,
\nswallow this abuse;
\nlips bleeding, but used.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nIngrid Bruck<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMILK CRATE, 1955
\n 
\nGlass bottles of milk came in wooden crates, sectioned with metal dividers, delivered daily on the back cellar steps. The milkman dropped off two crates, took away empties. Our family of eleven drank lots of milk with sandwiches. Dad ate a sandwich but took his with tea and a dollop of cream skimmed off a quart bottle. That year jets kept breaking the sound barrier, a sonic boom cracked our picture window. A screw fell out of the kitchen table, the leg fell off. Dad avoided manual labor, I never saw him use a screwdriver. He played cello with soft clean hands and long elegant fingers. Dad got three milk crates, stacked them under the corner of the table. I worried it was stealing, mom called it borrowing. I wondered if the milkman didn\u2019t say anything because he felt sorry for us which was worse. My little brother knocked the handle off the front door. Temperatures pushed zero. We kept shutting the door, wind kept blowing it open. When dad came home, his solution, more milk crates, but only two sat on the cellar stairs. He piled one on top of the other in front of the door, mom piled blankets on top for more weight. We went to bed with the door closed. Night wind sent a sucker punch that toppled the crates, cold blew inside, the furnace went down for the count. This happened the year Rosa Parks refused to sit at the back of the bus, nine kids in winter coats ate cheerios and milk taking turns huddled in front of an open oven to warm our fingers. No one complained about going to school that day.
\n 
\n 
\nSWEPT AWAY
\n 
\nMy father played classical records after he sent the children to bed. I sneaked out unnoticed, crawled under the living room couch, listened to vinyl symphonies on high volume. At the crescendo, I saw the stampede of animals from a forest fire. It was the same when the mighty Moldau roared into the ocean or the Mountain King danced in his Hall. Primary colors flared in technicolor after seeing Bambi.
\n 
\nafter the storm
\nsoft white hands
\nplay the cello<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHelen Burke<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNEW YORK STREET
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeff Burt<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCONSIDERED
\n 
\nLearning of your cancer, I searched Chicago
\nnot thinking I\u2019d find you, a snow-pale Swede in a sea
\n 
\nof ash-white Slavs, but we met on Milwaukee Avenue,
\nyour wife pressing her hand against your back
\n 
\nmeaning you should greet me and go, her look
\nof fear at meeting a long-haired wild, a veteran stuck
\n 
\nin a fatigue jacket like a boy in his father\u2019s coat,
\nrejected at college, the wind like an el train
\n 
\nroaring through the rails of my thin ribs,
\nthat when you gripped my hand
\n 
\nand I asked how was your illness,
\nlife was considered, you said.
\n 
\nFor years, I thought you meant that you calculated
\neverything first, considered it, thought it over,
\n 
\naround, through, planned, plotted, because days
\nwere numbered, few, but now I know you meant honored,
\n 
\nlike how I felt when you ignored precaution, your wife,
\nand my untamed appearance and reached to grasp me,
\n 
\npull me from a freefall into isolation, rejection,
\nback into the world.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMatthew Byrne<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCARBON DATING
\n 
\nIt\u2019s been a hot mess dating carbon,
\nwho won\u2019t tell me her age, priding
\nherself on discordant characteristics,
\nher fossilized convictions belying
\nthe answers to our most existential
\nhead scratchers. She is a dinosaur
\nin drag, an unflappable contrarian,
\na fox on the guest list for a shindig
\nat the hen house. Were she not such
\na roll in the hay I\u2019d head for the hills.
\nWere she an oasis I\u2019d stop lapping
\nup sand. Alas, I find myself settling
\nfor a polygraphic floozy inadmissible
\nin but no stranger to a court of law.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNikki Byrnside<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIF I GO FIRST
\n 
\nHe
\npromised
\nto be first
\nin attendance
\nat my wake, to lock
\nall entrances, disrobe,
\nthen violate my body
\nin unthinkable ways, one last
\nromp before they put me in the ground.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNO ONE WILL KNOW YOU
\n 
\nNo one will ever know you like your mother, they say\u2014
\nalways assuming that she wants to or does or notices you
\nat the other end of the leash with which she holds on to your
\ncomet\u2019s tail of energy and guarded love. For example,
\n 
\ndid my mother know I had worries like brush fires, like local
\ndisasters that didn\u2019t involve God? I suspect not. So I write a lot
\nabout the past perfect, my childhood. It is, as they say, my “material.”
\nI recall most how it was bad and lost to me. I have forgotten
\n 
\nthe nuclear wind I grew up in, the ocean and the war
\nthat I only understood obliquely. I have ignored until now how my mother
\nrose in her profession by accommodation. This has enabled me to think
\nthe cold open of Saturday Night Live would protect me from
\n 
\nthe consequences of thoughtless politics. If I laugh, I\u2019m safe. But
\nI\u2019m wearing down. I have to turn off the news, turn away from the papers.
\nI try local politics but they\u2018re full of compromise. I hate compromise.
\nI know the world is grey, but I want a right\/ wrong day. I live with
\n 
\nthe whisper from Mother that I could do better<\/i> and I hope it\u2019s
\nsomeone else\u2019s error. Meanwhile, I write so much about death-in-life
\nthat even the air around me seems finite but still I cannot capture
\nmom\u2019s absolute balance between a bargain and the sweet carte blanche.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAl\u00e1na Clohessy<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE LETTER S
\n 
\nSex. Surf. Sand. Sweat.
\nSimon says and scarlet letters,
\nshame upon all those girls,
\nsweet nothings whispered at midnight,
\nsober regrets herald the dawn
\nscreams and exhales fill the night air
\nsincerity left at home
\nsons who pretend to know better,
\nsex should never be forlorn.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Coolen<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWAKE SUCCESSFUL . . . FUNERAL POSTPONED
\n  
\nat Arthur Beasley\u2019s wake, Father Ryan circled the open casket
\nfilling the air with incense smoking from the thurible
\nhanding the censor to an altar boy, he recited the
\nCatholic Ejaculation for Eternal Rest
\n“rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord,
\nand let perpetual light shine upon him.
\nmay he rest in peace”
\nwhen Arthur Beasley sat up coughing, then responded “Amen,”
\nFather Ryan realized his ejaculation had been premature.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE PILOT CUTS POWER TO THE ENGINES
\n 
\nas we\u2019re crossing the snowy Sierra
\nand the plane drifts lower
\nacross the fertile valley of rivers
\nto the airport by the bay.
\nMy Uber driver has a straggly beard,
\ncalico flesh with spots of white like half-moons,
\neyes with a touch of the wild
\nlike you see in Malamutes with their wolf-ancestor DNA
\nwho should be watched around small children.
\nHe asks “Where from?\u201d
\nI say “Just back from DC.”
\n“Did you see him<\/i>?”
\n“Yes.\u201d
\nThe driver mutters a curse, then smiles. “Come,” he says.
\n“Where?” I ask.
\nHe drives me south through suburbs like a Lego set
\nthen west among mountains like misty breasts
\ninto a forest dense as bear fur
\nto a redwood tree with a burn scar so large
\nhe can drive inside it and park.
\n“Get out” he says.
\nBeneath my feet are beer cans, cigarette butts.
\nScent of charred wood mixes with urine.
\nIt smells like where I just left.
\n“Come,” he says.
\nWe climb spiral stairs within the trunk
\nand walk out onto a massive limb
\nhigh above the other treetops,
\nwisps of fog blowing from the blue Pacific
\nin breeze that ruffles our hair
\nwith the fragrance of salt-spray, of photosynthesis,
\nof prowling pumas and fresh unfolding fern.
\nA pair of red-tailed hawks soar spirals in an updraft.
\n“Here” he says.
\n“Yes” I say.
\n“You will pay me now.”
\nAnd gladly, I do.
\n 
\n 
\nDRIP
\n 
\nPast midnight she shakes him, wakes him.
\nSomething is dripping. <\/i>
\nShe means the ceiling.
\n 
\nSure enough. From the location he knows
\nwhich pipe (because he built this house).
\nBare-ass on a step stool with bare fist
\nhe punches (because he\u2019s pissed)
\na hole in the drywall
\nwhich hurts good (because anger wants pain)
\nwhich is stupid and might wake the kids
\n(a disaster) (but doesn\u2019t) releasing
\npuddled sewage
\na cold stinking splash on his hair
\ndribbling down face and ears
\na metallic taste in mouth on tongue.
\n 
\nShe gathers towels, a big pot. On tiptoe
\nwith flashlight he studies the defective
\npiece-of-shit drainpipe when she
\nfrom the floor wiping smelly goo says
\nI can\u2019t believe you\u2019re getting an erection<\/i>.
\nNeither can he but there it is.
\n 
\nHe won\u2019t repair tonight
\n(because would absolutely wake the kids)
\nso he showers his slimy head.
\nShe steps in, squirts shampoo in her palm.
\nThat was all so unexpected<\/i> he says.
\nI love you<\/i> she says.
\n 
\n \fSHE LEARNED TO SLEEPWALK BEFORE SHE COULD TALK
\n 
\nBy age two in sleep she could open doors,
\nwander the yard or once half a mile to the tire dealer
\nwhere she tripped over shredded rubber,
\nscraped her forehead. We got calls from the hospital,
\nthe police, child welfare who have no sense of humor.
\n 
\nAge three she could open locks in her sleep,
\ncross tracks at the freight yard
\nwhere a brakeman jumped in the nick.
\nPsychiatrist, this time, but no doc (nor anyone)
\ncan cage her restless soul.
\n 
\nSo we installed double cylinder deadbolts
\nwhich thwarted until the night age six
\nshe opened a window in sleep, jumped.
\nShe awoke screaming, ankle broken, pounding
\nat the double-bolted door but we were
\nin the shower together, couldn\u2019t hear.
\nNot the phone calls of the neighbor, the police.
\nReporter, camera crew.
\nGet that microphone out of my face.
\n 
\nLook sometimes we took long showers together.
\nNo more. We promise you sweetie,
\nwe will watch you every night.
\nWe will feed you carrots and read you great books.
\nWe will sing lovely lullabies.
\nWe will guide you all your wandering growing years.
\n 
\nOne day you shall meet a soulmate.
\nHe shall take your hand.
\nHe shall sleepwalk with you,
\nyou shall guide each other,
\nand we shall shower.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFred Dale<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBOTH OF MY DAUGHTERS ARE VIRGINS,
\n 
\nhe said\u2014pictures of them in happy poses on his desk.
\nOne out of college, he said, and the other, nearly so.
\nThat\u2019s a proud, proud papa, I thought, but we were at
\nthe dealership to price a new car, not to hear testimony
\non the purity of his little darlings. Priests stop the mass
\nprior to the transubstantiation\u2014bread to flesh, wine to
\nblood, remaking the child of history\u2019s all-time virgin\u2014
\nthe sacredness halted to collect, upfront, the cash need-
\ned to see what\u2019s behind curtain number one. So, there\u2019s
\na precedent in my life for awkward moments of transi-
\ntion. And while he punched in numbers, worked us up,
\nI focused on the photos, each face, what mysteries they
\nheld back, the twinkle that never washes off, for a trace
\nof the devil herself uncurling on their lips. I thought of
\nAll-American families, and I worried over these girls,
\ntheir lives of disclosure. Did they send him a weekly
\nreport\u2014like, Hey Dad, Calc II\u2019s kicking my butt, but
\non the good side, my hymen\u2019s still fully intact. And you
\nknow what, and please share this with everyone you
\nknow, perfect strangers, too\u2014under the right circum-
\nstances, ants could trampoline on it\u2014my timpani tight
\nmembrane, take wild chances over God\u2019s gorge of eter-
\nnal peril\u2014pound out a jungle rhythm too far away and
\nsoft to be heard. Something that sounds like No over
\nand over<\/i>. Or were they just like the old man: fine at
\nselling a bill of goods\u2014like, Low mileage, we assure
\nyou, dad, and as good as new\u2014if you must know<\/i>.
\n 
\n 
\nTURBIDITY BY YEAST
\n 
\nOberdorfer Weiss, light or dark wheat, swing top ceramic cap, metal rigging,
\nrubber gasket, a provincial Bavarian countryside painting on the label, nickel-
\nfloating rich foam\u2014malt that made me howl. Some bottles came with a thin,
\n 
\nwhite label, too, added after the fact\u2014like a little man with glue and a stick
\nslapped it on. Like a fortune. Turbidity by Yeast<\/i>. Like all my days to that point.
\nNothing coming through. In truth, it was an explanation for Americans who
\n 
\nprefer their beer clear as glass. I\u2019d fiddle with the cap, stare at the label\u2019s stark
\nphilosophy\u2014a proper excuse for everything in the occluded life to come, and
\nwhen needed, a message that would do the heavy lifting, my talking for me.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nkyndall delph<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI SHOULD CALL MORE
\n 
\nmy grandmother was the first black woman in the state of Arkansas to be a polygraph examiner
\nher father was a pastor and owned an old country church, his photos traceable upon creaky brown walls
\nof homes that haven\u2019t been visited in a while
\nshe says “you remind me of me”
\na conversation we hadn\u2019t had in a while \u2013
\n 
\ni wonder if she stills sees me in her
\ni wonder if the way i enunciate y’all and crinkle
\nmy eyes when i smile
\ncreate glimpses into youthful memories of
\ngrowing up in newport, a small town of brown hills and
\nlonely graveyards, my grandmother would take us showing mournful praises to past ancestors
\n 
\ni think about how death as crept up around my grandmother, i\u2019m scared to think about if she\u2019s noticed too \u2013
\n 
\nsee,
\nmy grandmother home is haunted.
\nmy past self is there, bound to apparitions
\n 
\nappearing in a home cluttered with baggage \u2013 from which my mother grew
\nas she as scribed her success into now old yellow report cards,
\nhonored by the governor for an outstanding academic career \u2013
\nshe only got suspended once, when she punched a classmate for saying nigga
\n 
\npast memories, their recollections
\ni collect them
\n 
\nbecause see i am lost,
\nthe path to know thy self is fucking harder than expected \u2013
\nwhen existence is questioned by the gaze,
\nthe path is twisted with emotional labor that clings
\nand rips the flesh from my bones
\ncontorted with corruption of man \u2013 i ask myself how my grandmother does it
\n 
\ni ask myself how i am supposed to return the favor
\n 
\ni ask myself if my mother made it, i knows she’s still strugglin’
\nand i think about the ways
\nthey navigated the world that wasn\u2019t built for them
\nthat they made the world work for them in ways no mere man could do
\nsomehow, they made it possible,
\nto sow seeds<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWilliam Doreski<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAN INFORMAL COURSE IN THE NOVEL
\n 
\nLost Time, or Things Past<\/i>? Which Proust do you prefer? Thick novels brick up the space between us. Proust with his madeleines. Tolstoy with a saber. Dostoevsky with a hatchet. Dickens with a weepy handful of foolscap. Stoker with a kiss-full of fangs. You read novels from one angle, I from another. Obtuse or acute? No, two right angles at right angles to each other. Today\u2019s snowfall offers geometries more complex than ours, but I prefer to keep books perpendicular to the main axis. Which axis? you ask. If like Proust you isolate one snowflake you\u2019ll find that like any crystallization it has several definite axes, even though it has only two discernible dimensions. If like Tolstoy I brush a snowflake off my greatcoat I\u2019ll hear it clatter on the frozen ground like a cymbal. If like Dostoevsky you huddle up to a peat stove in Siberia you\u2019ll melt a snowflake you might otherwise have come to love. If like Dickens I look out at the snowfall over London and mourn the poor, I\u2019ll inhale one snowflake in memory. If like Stoker you savor your snowflakes tinged with the blood-light of setting suns you\u2019ll learn to critique every novel you read as surgery on the intellect, baring the bone.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Estabrook<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSIDE DOOR OF THE BASEMENT
\n 
\nIn the summer of 1971 after working hard
\npainting houses in the sun he\u2019d come home
\nto his apartment in his ripped coveralls
\nsweaty, sticky and spattered with paint
\n 
\nAnd the gorgeous Mrs. K from upstairs
\nearrings dangling, golden bracelets clinking
\nwould suddenly appear from nowhere
\ncleavage glistening in her flowing low-cut dress
\n 
\nA goddess carefree bright and breezy
\nsmelling luscious so perfumy sweet
\nand stumble into him as he came in
\nthrough the side door of the basement
\n 
\nShe\u2019d squeak and wrap her arms around
\nhis bronzed shoulders and back
\npressing herself into him rubbing herself
\nonto him hard, breathless, quick
\n 
\nEmbarrassed he\u2019d try to escape so as not to get
\nher feminine perfection messed up
\n 
\nHe never understood this peculiar rubbing ritual
\nuntil he met Robert her husband in his tie
\nand tailored suit, and shook his soft white hand
\nlightly dusted with talcum powder.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDeirdre Fagan<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIN MEMORIAM
\n 
\nSometimes the worst thing that can happen
\nis the thing that already has
\n 
\nWhen the worst thing that can happen
\ndoes happen, you think, “The decks are cleared,”
\nbut they\u2019re not.
\n 
\nThere is a worse thing,
\nalways a worse thing.
\n 
\nRather than anticipate its arrival
\nor recall the last quake —
\n 
\nStir, stir the soup.
\nLight the candle.
\nWash your face.
\n 
\nCall your mother, your wife, your daughter, the neighbor.
\n 
\nCall the one or two you\u2019ve got left.
\n 
\nThen eat.
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN YOU REACH TO FLUSH THE TOILET
\nAND YOUR HAND LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE YOUR MOTHER\u2019S
\n 
\nAnd suddenly you are twelve,
\nand she is sitting on the toilet,
\nand you are standing with your back against the stall door,
\nand you are watching her change her pad and put in a tampon,
\nand she is bleeding and she cannot stop it,
\nand the government doctors at the county hospital don\u2019t stop it.
\n 
\nAnd you cannot stop it,
\nbecause she is dead and has been for twenty-five years,
\nand the doctors couldn\u2019t stop the cancer either,
\nor maybe they could, if they hadn\u2019t sent her home,
\nand told her to quit smoking and come back the next year.
\n 
\nAnd so you hug yourself, yourself three years shy of her own last birthday,
\nand you hold her in your arms, you, all that\u2019s left of her,
\nand you cry in that stall.
\n 
\nAnd then you remember she had Harvey Wallbanger underpants,
\nand they fascinated you then, with the recipe on the butt,
\nand you look down at your ankles and imagine them there,
\nand you laugh as the tears run down your face.
\n 
\nYour own bleeding was stopped years ago; the insurance you had helped.
\nAnd your daughter hasn\u2019t even gotten her period yet.
\nAnd you wouldn\u2019t even be here if your mother hadn\u2019t lost your older brother
\nin a bathroom stall, in a toilet, at a movie theater.
\n 
\nA miscarriage that caused that doctor to declare:
\n“If the next one makes it, if there is another one \u2014
\nI\u2019d advise against it \u2014
\nshe\u2019ll be a girl,
\nbecause girls are stronger, in the womb.\u201d
\n 
\nTwo boys made it before you \u2014
\nthe first made it nearly half as far as you,
\nthe second made it a little less than ten years shy of her \u2014
\nthe boy whose hands, a little larger than your own,
\nalso looked exactly like hers.
\n 
\nYou stand, wombless, a mother, a daughter long motherless,
\nand flush, your hand wrinkling as it compresses the cold handle,
\nand greet your own daughter on the other side.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKarin L. Frank<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBUSH- I-DO
\nafter Kim Addonizio<\/i>
\n 
\nI want a sword. Actually, I want two.
\nI want to strap them, tanto and katana,
\naround my naked waist, and face painted
\nlike Crazy Horse going into battle
\nwith single crimson lightning strikes,
\nparade the avenue, in the manner,
\nthough not the style, of Jesuit missionaries
\ncome to carry revealed truth to heathen tribes.
\nI want to stride past frontal hard-hat heat,
\npast three-piece-armored suits
\nwho auction off their wives and daughters.
\nI want my nudity, bolstered by weaponry,
\nto make them all bend the knee,
\nworship creation as it was before testosterone
\nusurped the altarpiece. And even if my body
\ncan\u2019t make your private nightingale sing
\nI want you to acknowledge my right
\nto strut the street, to threaten or cajole,
\nflaunting leather or lace, whichever applies.
\nBare breasts and unfettered feet are what
\nI want. When I get them, we can all
\nsheath our swords (unless called to service)
\nand proceed to sing in tongues.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMeg Freer<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPLACE SETTING: YACHATS BEACH
\n 
\nSalt water taffy pulling machine,
\na shop with fresh-baked pies
\non shelves in a pie cupboard
\nlike our antique at home.
\n 
\nMismatched silverware,
\nmilk glass and Depression glass,
\nseafood for dinner every night,
\nuntil I develop a rash.
\n 
\nLong walks down village lanes
\nto forage for giant blackberries,
\na check of the tide schedule
\nbefore stepping into the cold Pacific.
\n 
\nLittle crabs, colored shells,
\ntide pools full of sea anemones,
\nthe marvel of sand bar patterns,
\nsand castles with rivers and moats.
\n 
\nMy parents far down the beach kissing,
\nan older cousin who won\u2019t let me run to them,
\nthe intense power of a place and the knowledge
\nthat things will never be just this way again.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlan W. Bean<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCATHY ON BED
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPavlina Gatikova<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCATHY ON BED
\n 
\nWaiting my turn,
\nthe night departs
\nand leaves room next to you
\nin your bed. The mattress
\nstitches rise into wrinkled bed sheets
\nand breathes out the heat
\nof your sleep.
\n 
\nWaiting my turn,
\nI lay my eyes on the page
\nin frustration,
\nbecause for now
\nlight is your lover
\nthat strokes your back side
\nand slides its fingertips
\nfrom the tip of your shoulder
\ndown the ravine of your ribs
\nand climbs the hill of your hip.
\n 
\nWaiting my turn,
\nCathy, please,
\nlay down the fence
\nof your back.
\nLeave the light behind
\nand embrace me.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFACTORY TOWN
\n 
\nHow can you not love the
\nred, orange and gray colors
\nof the chimney-manufactured sky.
\n 
\nReminds me of a time
\nwhen US Steel, General Motors,
\nDow Chemical, were like John Wayne
\nor Gary Cooper \u2013
\nthe sheriff come to clean up the town,
\ndriving out the countryside,
\nletting good folks live in peace
\nand sweat and noise and smoke.
\n 
\nFolks are coughing
\nall the way down Main Street.
\nKids come home from play
\ncovered in soot.
\n 
\nAnd everyone\u2019s worried
\nthat the company\u2019s going to move operations
\nsouth of the border
\nwhere Mexican lungs breathe cheaper
\nand government agencies
\ndon\u2019t come poking around.
\n 
\nGuy with cancer says
\nif it weren\u2019t for the factories
\nthere\u2019d be no town.
\nWhenever he\u2019s making connections,
\nhe stops right there.
\n 
\n 
\nGOOD THINKING
\n 
\nI am alone in a room
\nwith a naked woman.
\nIt’s not what you think.
\nI’m in an art gallery.
\nThe nude is framed.
\nBut it is what you think.
\nMy admiration for the artist’s rendering
\nis magnified by the loveliness
\nof his subject matter.
\nBut it’s not what you think.
\nMy appreciation for that
\npink-skinned beauty
\nas she steps into her steamy bath
\nis purely aesthetic.
\nBut, of course, it is what you think.
\nAll of my encounters with
\nthe naked human body
\nstart out that way.
\nHowever it’s not what you think.
\nThis was painted in the
\nlate nineteenth century.
\nThe model is long dead.
\nAll that exists is a
\nfew dabs of paint.
\nReally, it is what you think.
\nDead or alive, ancient or modern
\ngorgeous women are gorgeous women.
\nTheir splendor knows no end date.
\nBut I’m a man with an appreciation
\nfor the fine arts. Yes, I am what I think.
\nBut I’m also a hedonist at heart.
\nWhich is what you thought originally.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nStephanie L. Harper<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJACK\u2019S IN THE PULPIT
\n 
\nMy brethren of the forest floor
\nwhat need have ye for addling
\n 
\nadornments?\u2003\u2003Shed your dreams of sepals!
\nBare your verdant spadices\u2003\u2003& engorge
\n 
\nyour tiny\u2003\u2003pink-powdered anthers into claret
\ntongues\u2003\u2003heaving with notes of wild cherry
\n 
\nvanilla\u2003\u2003anise spice\u2003\u2003& tender plum
\nas you wax spermatic with song to woo
\n 
\ndemure Jill\u2014my\u2003\u2003but she does grow
\nrestless in the sultry rays that breach
\n 
\nthe canopy\u2003\u2003mottling the underbrush\u2014<\/i>
\nto come unfurled\u2003\u2003& unhood her spathe\u2026
\n 
\nBehold her cluster!\u2003\u2003How plump & green
\nthose berries\u2003\u2003how white their hearts!
\n 
\nHow crimson the promise of summer fruit!
\n 
\n 
\nTRUMPLEWOCKY
\n 
\n\u2018Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
\nDid fark and fistle in the slade;
\nAll dingly were the rectiprobes
\nAnd the dampnuts updrade.
\n 
\n“Beware the Trumplewock, my friend!
\nThat bigly mouth, those puny mitts!
\nBeware the Tweet bird, and off-fend
\nThe cronious Perkletits!\u201d
\n 
\nShe packed her poisal voice and went:
\nFat chance the vapid imp she\u2019d spare\u2014
\nSo quivered he \u2018neath his Cheeto tree,
\nAnd feebly cried, “Unfair!\u201d
\n 
\nAnd, as the greelish light grew pale,
\nThe Trumplewock, with wits of wood,
\nCame grabbling through the femly vale
\nBecause he thought he could!
\n 
\nEins, zwei! Eins, zwei! And quick as pie
\nThe poisal voice sliced fierce and true:
\n“Go flay yourself, you mawkish elf,
\nAnd burn the residue!\u201d
\n 
\nThe Trumplewock would rue the day
\nHe left his diddlepot of lack.
\nThe frankish words would haunt him \u2018til
\nHe went galumphing back<\/i>.
\n 
\n\u2018Twas feckish, and the irkly grobes
\nDid fark and fistle in the slade;
\nAll dingly were the rectiprobes
\nAnd the dampnuts updrade.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHY ARE YOUNG WOMEN NO LONGER ATTRACTIVE?
\n 
\nWhy are young women no longer attractive?
\nIs it because I\u2019m now aging, less active?
\nDo they have less traction
\nbecause my inaction\u2019s
\ntransmuting to poems instead?
\n 
\nThe Coolidge Effect can no longer be played,
\nwhich it could and it did when I wandered and strayed.
\nI\u2019m writing, I\u2019m boring,
\nI care less for storing
\nfresh data in head or in bed.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRuth Hoberman<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGETTING AWAY WITH THINGS
\n 
\nThe vegetables talk quietly among themselves,
\nthe bread complains about the cold, the butter
\nsleeps, still as a corpse. On the stove
\n 
\na frying pan rocks and rocks, its sides encircling air.
\nYou ask for ginger and I buy ginger. You ask
\nfor rice and I buy rice. You ask for love
\n 
\nand I give you what I can\u2014enough to feed us both
\nfor thirty years or more. I know that elsewhere
\nno one gets away with things: that random shots
\n 
\nsmash days past ordinary all the way to disaster
\nand refrigerator doors stand open. I try on trouble
\nlike a dress I don\u2019t much like, but one
\n 
\nso many people wear, I need to see what it looks like
\non. There is no life that mine might not turn into.
\nBut this afternoon\u2019s devoid of sorrow:
\n 
\nthe vegetables murmur, the rice points
\nevery which way, and the frying pan, tired
\nof embracing air, wonders what we\u2019re having for dinner.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Kleiza<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE TABLE
\n 
\nShe is content with imperfection.
\nSimple beauty is of little interest.
\n 
\nI\u2019ve seen her fingers follow
\nstains from coffee cups, scars on
\nthe leg where the cats dulled
\ntheir nails.
\n 
\nI have offered a fix of filler,
\nsanding and polishing, yet
\nthere it remains
\nuntouched by remedial hands
\na replica of our lives together.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCaroline Koonce<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGROUNDING
\n 
\nfive things you can see<\/i>
\n 
\nI can see the blood on the pavement, staining clothes, skin, hands. I can see a bullet shell on the ground \u2013 it narrowly missed. I can see the people\u2019s breath coming out in short puffs as they run, small rainstorms created with each pump of their arms. I can see three people around me: a priest, a parishioner, and an acolyte. I can see that none of them are moving \u2013 I need to get out of here \u2013
\n 
\nfour things you can hear<\/i>
\n 
\nI can still hear the ringing from the bell towers \u2013 the noise doesn\u2019t go away until you scrape your eardrums out. I can hear a wail from behind me, but I have to keep running I can\u2019t stop for anyone. I can hear a bullet being loaded into a chamber, unsteady hands shaking the round. I can hear scream as I go down, body hitting the pavement as the bullet gouges.
\n 
\nthree things you can touch<\/i>
\n 
\nI can touch my side \u2013 warm and spongy and wet and thick. I can touch the hand next to me, but it feels pallid compared to mine. I can touch the unyielding floorboards, they\u2019re no comfort to me, not a worthy resting place.
\n 
\ntwo things you can smell<\/i>
\n 
\nI can smell the fear around me, roiling and boiling and coming to a head, masquerading as anger. I can smell the gunpowder, the harsh acidity striking the back of my throat as I inhale my last breaths.
\n 
\none thing you can taste<\/i>
\n 
\nI can taste the flavor of bullets in the back of my throat \u2013 harsh and bitter. I know it\u2019s blood, but until now I couldn\u2019t place it. I shouldn\u2019t be able to place it.
\n 
\nI turn off the news and go to bed. It\u2019ll still be there tomorrow.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nH. L. Korbee<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nDON\u2019T WORRY, I\u2019M LYING
\n 
\nIf you want the truth I’m taking a piss
\n 
\nIf you want the whole truth and nothing but then I’m taking a piss in a bathtub. The bathtub is not altogether unfamiliar but the experience is. I squat-stand pressing most of my weight on my right foot which has the sturdier ledge. Four inch boots have never felt so much like stilts. Panties pulled artfully to the side. I watch as the dirty toe prints are washed away with ease.
\n 
\nBut if you want the beautiful truth then the tub is porcelain. My urethra is a coin slot, and my piss gold shillings. They spill out the sparkling vessel and slide underneath the door. My earnings are enough to give all patrons of this party a long and prosperous life.
\n 
\nIf you want the brutal truth then I can’t remember if I washed my hands.
\n 
\nIf you want the Brutus truth then the bathroom is Rome. The tub has conspired with the plunger, shampoo, the toothpaste and other members of the lavatory senate, to overthrow the mighty toilet, as they are sick and tired of his holier than thou attitude. When I entered the toilet had been mutilated beyond recognition in sudsy massacre.
\n 
\nAnd if you want Beckett’s truth then I wait and wait for the pee to come and it doesn’t.
\n 
\nIf you want the backwards truth then I left the bathroom, potentially washed my hands, dismounted myself from the tub pulled my panties back into place pissed pulled my panties to the side hoisted my skirt, carefully climbed the perimeter of the bathtub deduced that the toilet was unusable and entered the bathroom.
\n 
\nBut if you want the sideways truth then I’m sorry, but you can’t. The laws of gravity do not permit one to piss sideways without making a damn mess.
\n 
\nI\u2019m also unable to provide you with the shitty truth. My actions while unsightly, I\u2019ll admit, stayed in the region of “number one\u201d. I\u2019m not a savage.
\n 
\nIf you want the Shia LaBeouf truth then I couldn\u2019t use the toilet because it was wearing a paper bag that said “I AM NOT A TOILET ANYMORE” Obviously, this comes from the insecurity about his failing career and I didn\u2019t want to make things worse by pissing all over him.
\n 
\nIf you want Sisyphus’ truth then I am condemned to fill this tub to the brim and watch it drain as soon as I get it an inch from the top, ignoring the hurried knocks at the door.
\n 
\nBut if you want the simple truth I am taking a piss
\n 
\nAnd if you want it again then I am taking a piss
\n 
\nAnd if you want it again then I am taking a piss
\n 
\nAnd if you want it again then I am taking the piss<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKamryn Kurtzner<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMINESTRA
\n 
\nWhite Onion
\nFive cloves of garlic
\nEscarole \u2013 three large heads
\nSwiss chard
\nOne small head of cabbage, leaves tight
\nUsual suspects \u2013 salt, pepper, red chili flake
\nPork ribs \u2013 keep the bones, that\u2019s where the flavor is
\nItalian sausage
\nBroken Hearts
\nSpirits
\nMinds
\nlooking for answers
\nsome sense of solace
\nCrusty Italian bread
\nSouls in need of soothing
\nmake a huge pot
\nonce someone knows
\nyou\u2019re making minestra
\nParsley
\nParmesan if it\u2019s for papa
\nChicken broth only if
\nyou need it to stretch
\n \u2003\u2003\u2003serve it in shallow bowls
\nno shallow hearts will
\nleave the table<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nYvonne Higgins Leach<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT WE CAN DO
\n 
\nHere amid the boxes marked
\nwith words
\n 
\nas if a grocery list
\nChristmas, old files,
\n 
\nbathroom, dishes, <\/i>
\nyou release in one breath
\n 
\ninstructions for packing
\nand in another a truth
\n 
\nyou believe will be a fallout
\nfrom your divorce.
\n 
\nHow can you say, as I twist
\nthe last hook from the wall,
\n 
\nsuch a notion as this:
\nthat our time together will be different
\n 
\nbecause it is our husbands
\nwho are friends?
\n 
\nI say what we can do
\nis believe that nothing
\n 
\nwill die on this day
\nor ever
\n 
\nand pluck
\nfrom this darkness
\n 
\nwhat is woman<\/i> and friend<\/i> between us
\nas we are even now.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLaurinda Lind<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA DEAD-CAT CATECHISM
\n 
\nOne story from the long stung
\ndays when I was barely there
\nmyself was my cat had litter
\n 
\nafter litter of sick kittens under
\nmy six-year-old daughter’s
\nbed, most of which I’d find
\n 
\nsplayed, stiff, in the mornings.
\nI stacked them in paper bags,
\nplanted them in sorry batches,
\n 
\nlettuce refusing to leaf. One
\nSunday I stepped outside
\nwith a bag and a shovel as
\n 
\na four-door sedan stuffed with
\nmissionaries drove down our
\ndirt road. The well-dressed
\n 
\nwoman who got out said
\ntruth was in the tract she
\nhanded me. But the minute
\n 
\nI touched it she said, That
\nwill cost you a dollar, and I
\ndidn\u2019t have one, so what
\n 
\ncould I do? I sent her salvation
\naway with her, but in my head
\nI handed her the bag instead,
\n 
\nfilled with shareable facts
\nsuch as the grass grows
\npaler over the kitten patch.
\n 
\nSuch as not everyone who
\ntalks the talk undoes the dark.
\nSuch as if Jesus shows up
\n 
\nto save whoever lasts, I
\nhope his jeep has an
\nejector seat, just in case.
\n 
\n 
\nINTERLUDE
\n 
\nTeenagers by the river
\ncame of age, summer
\n 
\nnights, up on the roof
\nof the old brick graphite
\n 
\nfactory. The river the spot
\nto strip and swim, the roof
\n 
\nthe place to shiver every
\nhot night in the wrong
\n 
\ncompany. The factory
\nbelow, a broken field
\n 
\nwhere their feet would
\nabsorb the grit from
\n 
\nthe filthy floor, its
\nammonium sulphates
\n 
\nsince before the war.
\nAn armor against
\n 
\na world not one of us
\nwas ready yet to wear.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMandy Macdonald<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNIGHT CLIMB, ACATENANGO, GUATEMALA
\n 
\nHalf way up, we wait for the dawn.
\nRustle of a hunter, grey fox or ocelot?
\nFuego is dark for once, his hearthfire smoored,
\nthin cloud circling his waist.
\n 
\nCooried down for warmth beneath shrubby pines,
\nwe are between sky and sky.
\nAbove, the starstream reels;
\nbelow us, villages are nebulae.
\nOur honeyed coffee steams
\nin the deep cold of the heights.
\n 
\nRifle shots crack open the blueblack silence.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBob MacKenzie<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTRAVELLER
\n 
\nat his funeral, standing near his grave
\na band plays the Internationale slow
\nand the few who stand there at his graveside
\nsing out still familiar words of hope
\n 
\nhe would not have wanted some hypocrite
\npreaching life everlasting over him
\nso an old communist speaks of past times
\nand of fallen near-forgotten comrades
\n 
\nLenin and Trotsky stand at his graveside
\nchilling the hearts they had once filled with hope,
\nUncle Joe is banned for being rowdy,
\nand Karl Marx’ words provide the eulogy
\n 
\nrecalling Joe Hill and legends of Wobblies
\nsome sing Solidarity Forever;
\nrecalling long ago ideals and passions
\nothers wonder what their lost cause had won
\n 
\ngrey men stand around a hole in the earth
\ntossing in handfuls of forgotten dreams,
\nmanifestos, and songs, then silence comes
\nsomewhere near the edge an old woman weeps
\n 
\n 
\nALL THE OLD MEN
\n 
\nall the old men walk like Walter Brennan
\ncarry their canes like swords for self-defence
\nhunch ’round tables in and outside cafes
\ndiscuss times past without love or regret
\ncircle tables to keep out modern times<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJeremy Nathan Marks<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nENDINGS
\n 
\nFor I\u2019d found that I\u2019d come
\nto the end of it:
\n 
\nI had truly admired tragedy
\nas she seemed a secretary whose courage
\nwas contained in her hips
\nand I liked how she had the firm ass
\nof a horse drawing children through a war
\n 
\nWords for me are now as empty as my wishes
\nbut I admire libidinous ink
\n 
\nSo from now on I will milk thorns
\nfor all the dressings they contain
\n 
\nAnd I will swear to the passing trains
\nof migrants looking for this newly drawn
\ncountry
\n 
\nThat here we clothe silk in the worm.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJennifer McGowan<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPORTRAIT OF TWO SELVES SLEEPING
\n 
\nLight can never be stolen or owned. Like
\nour faces, etched on our time. Reflecting.
\n 
\nAs I on you, reversed, restaged. On your face
\nI see mine and know, when you open your eyes,
\n 
\nyou see the same. Here, write me in your breath,
\npaint me with whatever you can hold, describe me
\n 
\nwithin the arc of your arm. The crook of my nose
\nstraightens yours; our hair tangles,
\n 
\nblurring us. What I see is what you see,
\nnot what I am. So, bundled in lies, we lie
\n 
\nlazy in each other\u2019s light.
\n 
\n 
\nBEARDED
\n 
\nIt isn\u2019t that I fear beards
\nas much as I, personally, don\u2019t want one,
\n 
\nparticularly on the bits of flesh
\nthat used to grace my cheekbones.
\n 
\nGravity. Such a downer. Of all things\u2014
\nthe liver spots, the spider veins, the gray\u2014
\n 
\nit\u2019s gravity I hate most\u2014
\nand that  cheekbone keratosis that will not go away,
\n 
\nfrozen off five times, same colour as the bad penny.
\nOtherwise the face is all right and it\u2019s still me behind
\n 
\nmy eyes, and if I dedicate evenings to high lumens
\nand tweezers, that\u2019s between me and my God. So. Kiss me.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nE.V. McLoughlin<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE PISS ARTIST
\n 
\nI am pissed off about
\nmy never-ending existential angst,
\nfucking tired of it.
\nTired of walking in gloom
\nwhile the world shines
\ngolden and green.
\n 
\nWalking, 6 am, to work
\nmy early shift, still cool,
\nthe rising sun shining through the amber
\nstream of piss.
\n 
\nHey! You said ——!!<\/i>
\nAnd he jumps in the car
\nhastily zipping his trousers.
\nPiss steaming off the tarmac
\ntogether with yesterday’s rain.
\n 
\nI could smile then
\nas I stomped away with
\nmy uniform on, for my
\n8 hours at the machine.
\n 
\nWhy not now?
\n6 am, green and golden.
\nToday.
\nI am alive, I am walking.
\nPiss easy, a relief.
\n 
\n 
\nI WANT
\n 
\nYou. And some breakfast.
\nI want to go somewhere so far away
\nI could sleep.
\n 
\nI want to be awake and get things done,
\nI want to not get things done –
\nscrew that! 
\nto fly (but not really),
\nto walk with you in the City of Our Dreams.
\n 
\nI want to stay in bed all day and read alone.
\nI want to do that exercise on the floor with you.
\n 
\nI want to live small,
\nI want to dream big.
\nI want to get a coffee. Do you want one?
\n 
\nI want to belong,
\nto find my Tribe.
\nI want to know The Meaning of Life
\nand to always remember what it is.
\n 
\nI also want some candy
\nbut not the hard kind
\nthat sticks to teeth.
\n 
\nI want to live forever
\nand for everyone to be able to choose.
\nAlways.
\n 
\nBut not hard candy. I want that shit banned.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHaley Montgomery<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFAMILY TREE
\n 
\nI was taught to stand up straight by my grandfather
\n“good posture is becoming” he would say
\nI always wanted to be becoming
\n 
\nI was taught how to feel tipsy by my cousins
\nbarely double digits our footsteps lingered near the liquor cabinet
\nlimbs long enough to steal sips of cooking brandy
\n 
\nI was taught devotion by my aunt and uncle
\non their 30th anniversary they waltzed slow
\nreminiscing each year through body language
\n 
\nI was taught to make pierogis by my grandma
\nplump cheeks wore flour for blush as molded dough took her fingerprints
\nI pretended not to learn to keep her close<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike L. Nichols<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nKEEP IT HOLY
\n 
\nI don\u2019t believe in religion
\nany more. But every few years
\nI\u2019ll sit through a sacrament
\nmeeting and cry because
\nthe hymns remind me
\nof my Mother.
\nI never knew Jesus, but I knew
\nMom. She too suffered
\nin dying, sacrificed
\nHer body and Her blood
\non the altar of motherhood.
\n 
\nThe boys in badly knotted ties
\npass out the blessed broken bread
\nand I pretend it\u2019s Her body
\ninstead. I know it\u2019s
\nSacrilege. But I already said
\nI don\u2019t believe any more,
\nif I ever did, and I\u2019m not hurting
\nanyone except myself making up
\nmy own mythologies, and anyway
\ntime after time her hand plucked a piece
\nof torn Wonder bread from these same trays
\nso there\u2019s still a connection, in a way.
\n 
\nWhen the trays containing tiny
\npaper cups of blessed bloody
\nwater come around I imagine how
\njust one could have quenched a
\nchemotherapy induced thirst.
\nIf I close my eyes I can pretend
\nshe still leads the congregation,
\npainting notes on the air with her
\ncork handled baton. I can pretend
\nto believe in human sacrifice.
\nAnd in salvation.
\nAnd in eternal life.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJ. Ray Paradiso<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nBruce Deitrick Price<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE RULES OF POETRY
\n–for Archibald MacLeish<\/i>
\n 
\na poem should electrocute
\nand be hairy like a kiwi fruit
\n 
\na poem should be amorous
\nand clamorous
\nlike two starlets
\nseeking the same part
\n 
\na poem should feel like
\ntwelve-grit sandpaper
\nto the thumb
\nand emit an ominous hum
\n 
\na poem may be untrue
\nand should conspire to undo you
\n 
\na poem should be loud
\nand well endowed
\nand not too proud,
\nlike this one
\n 
\na poem should be Hitchcock squeals
\nand stiletto heels . . .
\noh forget it.
\n 
\nTOES in a bottle
\ndeath in a purse
\nonly fools make rules
\nfor verse
\n 
\n 
\nMANHATTAN, CITY OF SURFACES
\n 
\nthe sheen of skyscrapers,
\nthe gleam of stainless steel subway cars,
\nof kosher hot dogs cooking on a street cart.
\nManhattan, city of mirrors that people live behind.
\nManhattan, city of speed and sudden change.
\n People think they are riding something, the wind,
\na space colony, an express train to Far Rockaway,
\nthe better luck they will have tomorrow.
\nWhatever happened today is already history.
\n 
\n(Manhattan, City of Surfaces<\/i> is the prologue to Bruce Deitrick Price’s currently unpublished experimental novel Manhattan Express.)<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAshley Prinzo<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPORTRAITS
\n 
\nHe liked scorching hot coffee,
\nso the waitress brewed a fresh pot.
\nHe asked for refills before he\u2019d finished,
\nin case she forgot to do it on her own.
\nHe sat and faced me, back towards the door,
\nlike he was scared someone will see us.
\n 
\nHe ate pancakes from the center,
\nleft a pool of syrup for the crisp edge.
\nHe hunched over his plate with each bite
\nscared to get sticky from the pool party on his plate.
\nI liked it at home when he ate cereal standing up,
\nhe looked tall and broad against the counter.
\n 
\nHe smoked long Newport cigarettes.
\nHe lit one off of the other, back to back,
\nwhen he could afford his own pack.
\nHe sparked, puffed, and filled our space.
\nEverything I owned smelled like the ashes
\nhe forgot to tap into the plastic tray.
\n 
\nWhen I picture Menlo Park Diner,
\nit\u2019s like a scrapbook of when we were.
\nThere we are sitting in the corner booth,
\nand then by the window, and at the bar.
\nI think I\u2019ll order something different,
\nbut even the menu is a memory of his hands.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBen Rasnic<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nADVENTURES IN LEVITRA WITHOUT A PARTNER
\n 
\nIndulging in quixotic reveries,
\nAR-15\u2019s firing
\nlong stem roses;
\n 
\ncorpses stiffly rising
\nin their tin can coffins
\nlike jack in the boxes;<\/p>\n

The neighbor\u2019s wife
\nmowing the lawn;
\nher weary halter top
\nfailing to contain
\nan exquisite cleavage;
\n 
\nWatching from my window,
\n 
\ntilting at
\nwindmills.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMaree Reedman<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE END
\n 
\nIt was after trying to hang his jacket
\non the back of a nursing home chair
\nfalling to the floor,
\nlying there for hours
\nwhile an aide sang folk songs,
\nwhen my father decided to die.
\n 
\nI\u2019ve had the Richard<\/i>,
\nhe told me from his bed
\nbandages on his arms, his legs and his head
\ndrops of blood on the lino
\nwhere he\u2019d dragged himself.
\n 
\nHe\u2019d seen things in Borneo
\nhe never talked about
\nrode from Brisbane to Stanthorpe
\non his pushbike
\noutlived my mother
\nwon over a nursing home
\nwhile the cancer bored
\ninto his carpenter\u2019s house of bones
\nand blighted his good eye
\n 
\nbut it was an old grey jacket
\nmedium size
\nthat felled him.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nStacy Rollins<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMEMORY BOOK FOR MY BOSS
\n 
\nTelepathic telomeres, do your morning
\nstretches where the fungus grows on trees
\nlike wheat-colored beards in a heaving, dank May
\nwhile all the dyed tendrils in New York City
\nstay bundled in wool, and scowls on the street
\nsay how old these arctic blasts have become.
\nMy beloved boss retired at 70 and flew away;
\nI started drinking a medicinal mushroom elixir
\nof Lion\u2019s Mane dual-extract, replete with beta glucan
\npolysaccharides that boost Nerve Growth Factor,
\nmemory, mood, the whole brain coaxed to sprout
\nmanically like the Lion\u2019s Mane itself, I guess.
\nYou can try for yourself and research the miracle
\non your own, if it doesn\u2019t plunge your blood pressure
\ndown to sea level, like it did mine, the electric
\ncurrent of my synapses impotent powerlines
\nafter a hurricane. I do not like to be cut off.
\nIs blood thicker than water? Let\u2019s see. Because
\nit felt like the end of fond memories for me,
\nwhen he left, with so much rain and aging
\nand packing up, and I heard Alzheimer\u2019s
\nis ultimately triggered by a traumatic event,
\nsuch as putting together my boss\u2019s memory book,
\nperhaps. He said the letter I wrote made him cry.
\nThen he held my hand between both of his
\nand they felt so tender, like the floured dough
\non my mother\u2019s kitchen credenza just before
\nshe let me press it with aluminum cutters
\ninto stars.
\n 
\n 
\nSAY OR IT ISN\u2019T SO
\n 
\nBecause if I wrap words not around instead of weaving them through,
\nis that commitment? Am I on an express train? If I don\u2019t call it,
\nI may not recall it. Right. Your face. Your eyelash blink,
\nblank. What transparency is taped? See the fuzz strands stuck
\nat the edges, magenta. The smell of pinking shears among the rick-rack
\nin the tweed sewing basket, a tomato or strawberry cushion
\npinned up and pent up with a thimble and a thumb tack. I turned
\nthe thimble between my fingers; I wanted a Monopoly game.
\nI was eight. I hated sewing but won 4-H district competitions
\nwith my brightly-patterned short sets. I wanted to be Atreyu.
\nMy diary\u2019s pages held the comebacks I didn\u2019t say locked in them
\nwith an actual lock, and my oil paintings taunted me
\nwith permanent errors in grass blades mowed
\nthrough by the rough grain of canvas.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAparna Upadhyaya Sanyal<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA MOTHER PROMISES
\n 
\nI promise,
\nyou promise, they promise
\nhe and she promise,
\nthat no promise will remain, my son.
\n 
\nWhen all is said and done, your
\nlife will not be mined for promises unkept
\nor dreams unfulfilled.
\nVanities all,
\nthey will stand at the side of your pyre,
\nimpatient hands tick- ticking away
\nthe last mortal remnants of your
\nhusk, and they will pray a promise
\nthat will go nowhere, hit only
\nthe chandan you now sleep on
\nand vibrate the ears of your loves
\nand losses.
\n 
\nAs you are awake, so you will sleep,
\nand the wrinkles of your fabric
\nwill mesh with billions of others
\ninto the space- time you never
\nunderstood to begin with.
\n 
\nSo,
\nfor the fleeting nano, to micro
\nseconds you are here, my son-
\nstay happy, stay true.
\nAll else is ashes.
\nBut the echo of your smile will warm
\nlovers hearts and the din of
\nyour truth may someday foment revolutions.
\n 
\nSo be happy,
\nbe true.
\nThe rest, my son, is nothing.
\nI promise.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYOUNGER SISTER
\n 
\nAlways second, #2, an afterthought, a P.S.
\nat the bottom of the page in six point type
\nhand-me-downs that sag and drag
\nsince she is so much taller
\nso much smarter
\nmy first grade to her third
\nwhere she learns looping letters
\nstrung together like Christmas lights
\nmy block letters march solo, serious
\nstraight across the page
\nI get the smaller slice, the bottom bunk,
\nthe broken Barbie with one shoe
\nshe gets a house key around her neck,
\na bra, a boyfriend whispering on the phone
\nI practice kissing my pillow
\ntasting my future<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWilliam Soldan<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJANUARY MAN
\n 
\nIt was him told me it\u2019s better
\nto have something and not need it
\nthan the other way around.
\nWhy he kept a horse in the stable,
\nthe rifle and armor-piercing rounds.
\nHe\u2019d been my mother\u2019s husband
\nin a life before, in the years following
\nthe jungle war.
\n 
\nHe grew his beard to the bottoms
\nof his eyes, one blue, the other
\nmilk-blind from fire.
\nAsked me if I\u2019d ever killed a man,
\nas if he could fathom an answer
\nthat wasn\u2019t no<\/i>.
\n 
\nA segue for a story, of knifing off
\nheads in the wet heat,
\npiking them on the path to buy time,
\nto breed fear in their commie hearts.<\/i>
\n 
\nSitting in the long garage, busted
\nPanhead propped in the corner,
\nwe sucked Genesee from the can
\nwhile the woodstove sucked the sweat
\nfrom our pores.
\nCrushing empties with a rusty sledge,
\nradio tuned to blues, 12-bar flashbacks
\nriffing through the lies\u2014they had to be lies\u2014
\nweren\u2019t they lies?
\n 
\nHe wasn\u2019t my father but could have been.
\nAnd who knew what fluke trajectory
\nhad led me there, seeking shelter.
\nThat there I\u2019d find it, in a quiet valley,
\naway from everything.
\nWho knew that I\u2019d come so close.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBUT FOR AGE
\n 
\nBut for age we could be friends
\nshare music, give praise
\nfor work well done, our glasses raised,
\nand if we fought, we\u2019d make amends.
\n 
\nBut I\u2019m afraid to look at you
\nlike a man who still exists,
\nnot some old fool who must resist
\nthe claws of love; you have no clue
\n 
\nthat when you wear your low-cut blouse
\nI think of Matthew 18:9
\nand know your dulcet voice so fine
\nwould, even eyeless, stir to rouse
\n 
\nthe man in me, the soaring lover,
\nthe falcon on his final flight
\nall of a piquant dark-bright night.
\nBut O! To see you run for cover\u2026
\n 
\n 
\nNURSING HOME
\n 
\nAides assure us there\u2019s no cause for alarm
\nAs the lovely old woman bays like a hound.
\nAnd the nurses? They\u2019re calm whatever the storm.
\n 
\nThere\u2019s an angry man with a deadly charm,
\nA sorrowful man whose sorrow redounds.
\nAides assure us there\u2019s no cause for alarm.
\n 
\nThere\u2019s the cheerful man who misses his arm.
\nHe rolls down the hall and cackles out loud.
\nThe nurses stay calm whatever the storm.
\n 
\nThe social worker has mastered her smarm,
\nWhile the wild-eyed vet tries to flee \u2019til he\u2019s bound.
\nAides assure us there\u2019s no cause for alarm.
\n 
\nThey wheel to the glade, his hand on her arm
\nWhere the flowers are thick and low to the ground.
\nThe nurses stay calm whatever the storm.
\n 
\nHe covers her face; her breath is so warm.
\nHe says his goodbyes without making a sound;
\nAides assure us there\u2019s no cause for alarm.
\nAnd the nurses? They\u2019re calm whatever the storm.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid Spicer<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLAST COOKIE
\nfor Nancy<\/i>
\n 
\nAn emblem of abstinence,
\nthe chocolate-covered
\ngraham cracker
\nsprinkled with pecans
\nremained on the porcelain platter
\nin the middle of the gallery
\ntable for ten minutes.
\nAfraid to be the glutton
\nwho scooped it
\nup, nobody touched
\nthe lonely rectangle.
\nThree millennial men
\nhovered over it,
\nforgetting the Warhols
\non the walls,
\nfocusing on this different kind
\nof art. They stared
\nat each other, ignored
\nthe thin, older lady
\nwho ambled by them
\nand popped it
\ninto her mouth
\nbefore they could stop her\u2014
\na veteran of these affairs\u2014
\nwith disapproving frowns.
\nShe smiled sweetly,
\na heroine
\nin a Rolling Stones song,
\nas they left the room
\ntwenty seconds
\nbefore the baker\u2019s
\nassistant brought
\nin a brand new plate
\nof delectable delights
\nthat disappeared
\nfaster than their predecessors,
\nleaving another solitary
\ncookie.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Stupp<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTOO GOOD
\n 
\nCharley Burley was too good
\neverybody in Pittsburgh said so
\nthe sportswriters trainers cut men
\nall the mill workers the garbage men the mechanics
\nthe great Sugar Ray Robinson said so
\nthe great Sugar Ray who fought Jake LaMotta six times
\nsaid he wouldn\u2019t fight Charlie Burley because he was too good
\nwouldn\u2019t risk getting his face beat flat as a piece of tin
\nbesides I have Fritzie Zivic he said
\nwhen the greatest fighter in the history of boxing is afraid of you
\nthat\u2019s something
\nit was said that the parabolic curve of Charley\u2019s left hook
\nwas so deadly so mathematical
\nit was borrowed for the Manhattan Project
\nyet so beautiful it could have been drawn by DaVinci
\nthe middleweight Archie Moore never knew what hit him
\nor from what altitude or from what continent
\nhe almost lost an eye
\nthe blast from Charley\u2019s fist was so bright on the horizon
\nthe bombsight cracked before the fallout began<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnne Swannell<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHOUGHTS ON OBSERVING YOUNG PEOPLE
\nCAVORTING IN THE COWICHAN RIVER
\n 
\nSparkling tits and
\nglistening bums:
\nsoon they\u2019ll be
\non dads and mums.
\n 
\n 
\nA LIMERICK
\n 
\nThere is a young girl in Buckfastleigh
\nwho encourages guys to fuck fastly.
\nShe\u2019s expecting in May
\nbut I fear cannot say
\nif the father fucked first or fucked lastly.
\n 
\n 
\nI TELL HIM NOT TO WORRY
\n 
\nIn his mid-eighties, one trouble leads to another\u2014
\nthe sciatic nerve sticks him a good one now and then and never
\nlets him walk pain-free. Can\u2019t get to the gym or in for a swim.
\nMuscles contract and now he\u2019s unsteady on his feet,
\nblood pressure low, mustn\u2019t stand up fast.  Not allowed
\nto drive.  His world is shrinking.  He\u2019s shrinking.
\nBut not to worry, I say\u2014
\nwith two bellicose lunatics with bad haircuts at the helm, one
\non the ship of state directly to the south of us and one
\nacross the Pacific\u2014both with nuclear bombs poised
\nfor action\u2014each and every one of us
\nmay be shrinking soon\u2026.
\nsizzled to a crisp or vaporized
\nto a charcoal silhouette on the wall\u2014a mere shadow
\nof our former selves.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Thornton<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI WANT YOU
\n 
\nI want you like creek wants stream
\nI want you like grass wants rain
\nI want you like fire wants wind
\nI want you like spider wants robin
\n 
\nI want you like stream wants river
\nI want you like flower wants sun
\nI want you like grass wants rain
\nI want you like mouse wants hawk
\n 
\nI want you like sea wants moon
\nI want you like fire wants wind
\nI want you like iron wants magnet
\nI want you like match wants gasoline
\n 
\nI want you like swimmer wants tide
\nI want you like ground wants seed
\nI want you like flower wants sun
\nI want you like sane wants crazy
\n 
\nI want you like grass wants rain
\nI want you like iron wants magnet
\nI want you like sea wants moon.
\nI want you like mouse wants hawk
\n 
\nI want you like creek wants stream
\nI want you like stream wants river
\nI want you like river wants sea
\nI want you like sea wants moon
\nI want you like spider wants robin
\nI want you like mouse wants hawk
\nI want you like fuel wants flame.
\nI want you like sane wants crazy.
\n 
\n 
\nHOT RED NIGHTS IN COOL BLUE SHEETS
\n 
\nI see you in an empty room next to a mattress. I wish you would bite into my nipples and spit out pearls. I wish you would chew me warm like a cookie, licking out the gooey chocolate parts. When I look at you I see you watching me. You climb a ladder like I want you to climb my body, one rung at a time until you reach the top, then climb back down again, only to start back up. When we start, we spin like a top. Your tongue hides in your mouth; what color is it? You look at me like the Sphinx. I want to get to know the hot pink flashes that hide at the backs of your knees. I want to know if you really can burrow like a badger and stay in one hole all winter; I could stay there with you. I could go the distance. Once upon a time, I thought, I\u2019d never run out of men like you. Like a linden tree, you lean to the left, lengthy along one side. I want to feel your cool blue tongue and lie down in lily of the valley along all my length. Will you only please give me plenty of hot red nights in cool blue sheets.
\n 
\n 
\nELEGY
\nfor Knight Thornton (1910 to 1988) <\/i>
\n 
\nNudging crows noise the morning;
\na table lamp buzzes over my hand.
\n 
\nThink of that day you taught me to ride a
\nbicycle. The photo afterward shows me, the bike, and
\n 
\nyou in the background at home. Across the street is the
\nchurch where we buried your ashes.
\n 
\nI couldn\u2019t touch the
\nbox in the Priest\u2019s hand, hating him who
\n 
\nloved you too. At the hospital it was
\nHalloween. Orderlies dressed as mice, nurses as
\n 
\narmy commandos. One lifted you from bed, your
\nribs narrow as birds\u2019. Think
\n 
\ninstead of that day on the gravel path by the
\nwater. My heart beat fast, unconvinced. You
\n 
\nran alongside. “Pedal, Pedal!” Then,
\npushed. I bent low over the handlebars,
\n 
\nmoving in every part but will. The road
\nwobbled, then stayed firm. At once I
\n 
\nwanted to go on forever, held up
\nin rushing air, and couldn\u2019t unclench my hand to wave.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTerry Tierney<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAT THE LEONARD COHEN CONCERT
\n 
\nA man in a black fedora reads Kant
\nsitting on a couch outside the men\u2019s room
\nin the historic Fox Theater in Oakland,
\nwallpaper with Greek columns and heroes,
\ngold and bronze paint, a fluted pedestal
\nwith branches reaching upward like worshippers
\nfrom a glazed vase, the couch with red
\nand black stripes on cream satin, knit
\nwith tiny stars, a tribute to performers,
\ntheir perceptions of space and time, faint
\nechoes of former shows and films, clicks
\nof cells pulled through a hot projector,
\nfaces dotted with lint, shades of gray
\nand Technicolor. The author\u2019s name
\non the cover, black letters hovering
\nover his bust, thoughts woven
\nwith the voice of the singer
\nintroducing a new song, muffled
\nby distant speakers and thick carpets,
\nthen backup singers with perfect pitch
\nstanding around his centered posture,
\ncocked knee over woolen thigh, the brim
\nof his fedora leaning with his forehead
\nprojecting pure reason, his argument
\nfor himself.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoy Ueno<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSECRETS: CAN YOU PROMISE NOT TO TELL?
\n 
\n“let me whisper in your ear”
\nthe painter sings off-key
\nwhich is funny
\ni am five my sister is four
\nhe is in his late-twenties
\nand paints the frame
\nof our neighbor\u2019s door
\nblack
\n 
\nalso covers his pants
\nthat\u2019s funny too
\n 
\non the patio
\nmom thumbs the hose
\nto sprinkle food
\ninto the green onions
\nwhich spring forth
\ninto the world
\nlike we two
\n 
\nthe glen: tire swing
\nsweets doll-play
\nthose secrets!
\n 
\nhis secret: a conch shell
\nwhispering or a spell
\nto transform a weedy
\ndandelion into a full red rose?
\n 
\nthere
\nhe doesn\u2019t ask us
\nto lift shirts
\nor show panties
\npose for a photo
\nor cheek-kiss
\nonly to touch it
\nthere
\nand he insists in
\ngreat big letters
\n“DO THIS\u201d
\n 
\n“in the glen mom\u201d
\n 
\ni\u2019m a rat but he\u2019s taken off
\ndropped the brush
\nwith its ugly black hairs
\nthis upside-down afternoon
\n 
\nmom still watering the plants
\nhas a secret too
\nthe conch shell
\nwhispering not trumpeting
\nmurmuring not thundering
\nnot charging into battle
\nonly humming a flat note:
\n“don\u2019t tell dad
\nwhen he gets home
\ngo wash your hands” she says
\n 
\nthough she scrubs and scrubs
\nand scrubs and scrubs
\nthe fingers individually
\nthe nails the backs
\nof the hands the palms
\n 
\nour mom may be scared
\nhe will erupt or the police
\nwon\u2019t do a thing
\nor maybe it never
\nhappened
\nto her either<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard Weaver<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJAMES THURBER
\n 
\nCan I really be cursed, or am I just an unlucky, mostly blind,
\nand now deaf son of a bitch? It\u2019s a fair question
\n 
\nand I\u2019m a damn good person to be asking it in noisy desperation.
\nI want answers, damn it. And who other than you
\n 
\ncould dole then out? One last prayer to you
\nin hopes of a coherent answer before the dreamless sleep:
\n 
\n“God bless… God damn.\u201d<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPatricia Wentzel<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nROCK CREEK MEMORY CENTER: BIRDWATCHING
\n 
\nthe mourning dove\u2019s red-orange feet
\nare hidden in the dry grass of the lawn
\nit drives its beak into the ground
\nwith remarkable persistence
\ngiven that it\u2019s 120 degrees outside
\nsurely all the worms have fled deep underground
\n 
\nMom watches with interest
\nthen sinks back into her chair with a small grunt
\nwe are sitting near the picture window
\nat the end of the hall that leads to the nurse\u2019s station
\nshe in her high-backed wheelchair
\nme in the glider chair that faces back down the hall
\nmy head cranked over my shoulder
\nso I too can watch the birds
\n 
\nthere are windows everywhere
\nbut the chairs all face inwards
\n 
\nI wheel Mom around the circuit of hallways
\nmake one-sided small talk
\nuntil we return to the window
\nwhere I wrench the glider chair around and
\ntogether Mom and I watch the birds
\nI hold her hand
\n 
\nlong after she\u2019s gone to sleep
\nI slip my hand from hers
\nand let myself out
\ngrateful I can still recall
\nthe seven digit code required to exit
\n 
\n 
\nTOWARD THE EXIT
\n 
\nElbow deep in diapers,
\nnearly numb from lack of sleep,
\nI gave no thought to the way
\nmy Mom would react
\nto my elevation to motherhood.
\nGiven that her own mother
\nhad been bereft of insight,
\nthe victim of wrenching delusions
\nwhich made victims of us all,
\nperhaps I could have predicted
\nwhat came next.
\n 
\nBut I did not.
\nSo, I was ill-prepared when,
\nat Mom\u2019s first visit following the birth of my twins,
\nat every visit over the ensuing years,
\nshe fell on me, sobbing,
\nbegging my forgiveness
\nfor the wrongs she had done me,
\nperceived and real.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s all my fault<\/i>, she would say
\nas if I were damaged beyond redemption,
\na diseased oak, punky in the heart,
\ndestined for destruction.
\n 
\nEntranced by martyrdom,
\nshe re-enacted her abandonment of me
\nin all the ways that mattered.
\n 
\nI dismissed the theatrics\u2014
\nit\u2019s OK, I forgive you, let\u2019s move on<\/i>,
\nmaking motions with my hands
\nas if I were herding a small child
\ntoward the exit.
\n 
\nI had moved beyond all that
\nor at least wrung the worst of the pain
\nfrom the past she sought to resurrect.
\n 
\nNow I sit with Mom here in the memory care unit,
\nfollow her vague drifting gaze
\nas the other demented residents
\nshamble by her door.
\n 
\nHer room smells of the desert\u2014
\nmonochrome, reptilian\u2014
\nPinesol and tonight\u2019s meatloaf.
\nNo more drama.
\nMy relief is a physical presence,
\nclothed in guilt.
\n 
\nI congratulate myself on having resisted
\nthe impulse to follow in her footsteps,
\nto label my children broken and wanting.
\n 
\nYet, looking into her foggy blue eyes,
\nI wonder if all is well.
\nWho knows who I will be \u2013
\nonce death has claimed her.
\n 
\n 
\nTO GENTLE THE STONES
\n 
\nI am weary
\ndry, heavy like your ashes
\nstone dry
\nweighed down by sorrow, bitterness
\n 
\nsharp chips of grief
\nstrike me unpredictably
\ndraw blood, a thousand
\ntiny stinging nicks\u2014
\n 
\nI yearn for cool waters to gentle the stones
\nwhere I might float
\nat the boundary of water and sky
\nresting for a time
\n 
\ndistant bird calls
\nsplinter the stillness
\nstir duty to life
\n 
\nI open the box
\ntip it slowly
\nlet the wind and earth take you<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDeborah Wong<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPAST PARTICIPANT
\n 
\nI wake up every morning hoping that yesterday was a dream. I\u2019d lost that magic pen I used to rewrite history. I realise we\u2019ve collected too many postmarked stamps, now collecting dusts, right beside where you used to lie. The moon is watching over my grief each night, to make sure I waste no more tears, just in case the one who got away returns. I still dream of my father\u2019s funeral; his favorite hymn \u2013 Mama\u2019s hands and mine, gripping his for the last time. I put on the least of my clothes; fingers waltzing, lamenting in front of the mirror.
\n 
\nPlease be strong. You have no room to cry. <\/i>
\n 
\nStainless steel chopsticks I just found,
\nthe ones that burned my tongue,
\nlike you did to my bridges of kindness.
\n 
\n 
\nA STRANGER\u2019S ATTEMPT TO EMBRACE KUALA LUMPUR
\n 
\nThe colour of accepting a culture
\nis not to mock at anyone eating roti canai
\nfor breakfast, lunch and dinner. Stop complaining
\nabout the Monorail ride from Hang Tuah to Titiwangsa
\nmelting in languages, dialects and religions.
\n 
\nIn your hotel room, I replenish that potpourri
\nwith fennel seeds, cardamom and cumin,
\ndrinking milk tea with sprinkling of Masala<\/i> spices
\nI know for sure you will despise the smell
\nthat lingers underneath my nails. Remember
\n 
\nI told you about the plate of Seven Continents of Rice
\nin a heap of raw pigments, take a wild bite
\nto brew your Eros, experiencing overflowing of stages;
\na cultural detachment if you missed climbing
\nany of the Batu Caves\u2019 272 concrete steps,
\n 
\nthe long forgotten melody, my exotic upbringing,
\nbreathe slowly as you\u2019re counting the days
\nfor this trip to end. Strands of ikal mayang<\/i> hair
\nbrush your shoulder, hearing your voice
\nechoes through the insomniac skyscrapers<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nStella Wulf<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE QUANTUM THEORY OF SANDWICHES
\n 
\nI see them through the Hubble of my mind,
\nthis linear momentum of physicists,
\nbonding in the CERN canteen, pondering
\nthe matter of quark sandwiches,
\narms waving through space, articulating
\nan uncertain theory of flavours.
\n 
\nI see them in their elementary huddle,
\nso intent on the fundamental matter,
\n(the charm of baguette, the strangeness of bagel),
\nthey collide with the quantum mechanics,
\narmed with fuse wire and needle-nose pliers,
\naccelerating toward the Hadron glitch.
\n 
\nI see them in the singularity of their fuddle
\nthe cosmological scrabble to redeem
\nthe elements of their high energy regime,
\nscattered in the impact of the Big Bang,
\ngastronomic particles of quark,
\nlettuce, tomato and cheese.
\n 
\n 
\nCHESHIRE OAKS
\n 
\nBefore boys were nibbling our lobes,
\nit was horses that nuzzled our necks,
\nquickened our unbroken hearts,
\nrose and fell between our thighs.
\n 
\nGirls like us could only gaze
\non borrowed steeds, saddled
\nwith the weight of longing, our fields
\nstocked with wild imaginings.
\n 
\nOur thirteenth summer the oaks
\nthat grazed the clouds were felled,
\ntheir trunks left spliced to the bole,
\nfourteen hands, ground to wither.
\n 
\nGirlish dreams ride bareback.
\nMine was Spirit, a sorrel mare,
\nan unswerving quarter horse,
\nher mane a silver streak,
\n 
\na glance of skittish blade,
\nthe shredding of cambium bark,
\nsticky with sap, or the slick
\nof sweat on a blaze.
\n 
\nLoosed in the fastness of youth,
\nwe raced our days to glory, slept
\nstabled in the soundness of home,
\nour dreams tethered to a sliver of time,
\nas if freedom were ours to keep.
\n 
\n 
\nCRUMBS
\n(after William Carlos Williams)<\/i>)
\n 
\nI cannot tell a naked lie,
\n 
\nit was I who took the biscuit
\n 
\nthat you so crisply baked.
\n 
\nI who wolfed that piece of cake.
\n 
\nI couldn’t resist the humble pie,
\n 
\nnor the last cheese straw,
\n 
\nand I\u2019m sorry to be a bitch,
\n 
\nbut I found them all a bit rich.
\n 
\np.s.
\n 
\nYou can keep the wheelbarrow
\n 
\nupon which so much depends,
\n 
\nI\u2019ve taken the hens.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMark Young<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE
\n 
\nTell the truth. The com-
\npetition of long ago still
\n 
\nhaunts. Her hair shimmers.
\nProblems of the past should
\n 
\nbe a thing of the past. Are
\nyou on board with that?
\n 
\nProvided you lie about it she
\nshot back. A violin trembles,
\n 
\nthe telephone rings. They
\nwalk out to buy noodles.
\n 
\n 
\nArtists’ Bios<\/strong>
\n 
\nPaul David Adkins<\/a><\/strong> lives in NY. In 2017, Lit Riot Press published his collection Flying Over Baghdad with Sylvia Plath<\/i>. Journal publications include Pleiades, River Styx, Rattle, Diode, Baltimore Review<\/i>, and Whiskey Island<\/i>. He has received five Pushcart Prize nominations and two finalist nominations from the Central NY Book Awards.
\n 
\nAlan W. Bean<\/a><\/strong> is the photographer whose work accompanies Pavloina Gatikova’s poem Cathy on Bed<\/i>. Mr. Bean is married to Ms. Gatikova.
\n 
\nGina Marie Bernard<\/a><\/strong> is a heavily tattooed transgender woman, roller derby vixen, and high school English teacher. She has completed a 50-mile ultramarathon, followed Joan Jett across the US, and taught creative writing at a medium-security prison. She lives in Bemidji, Minnesota. Her daughters, Maddie and Parker, own her heart. She has written one YA novel, Alpha Summer<\/i> (2005), and one collection of short fiction, Vent<\/i> (2013). Her work has recently appeared in r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal, The Hunger, Waccamaw Journal<\/i>, and Jet Fuel Review<\/i>. Her chapbook Naked Gettin\u2019 Nuder<\/i> is a 2018-2019 Glass Chapbook Series finalist, and has been accepted for publication by Clare Songbirds Publishing. Her website is ginamariebernard.squarespace.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nIngrid Bruck<\/a><\/strong> grows wildflowers, makes jam and writes poetry. The Pennsylvania Amish country where she lives inhabits her writing. Current works appears in Unbroken Journal, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Quatrain.Fish, W.I.S.H., Entropy, The Song Is<\/i> and I Am Not A Silent Poet. <\/i> Poetry website: ingridbruck.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nHelen Burke<\/a> is a poet turned artist; her work has exhibited in the UK and France; she currently has an exhibition in Leeds, England. Her art can be seen on krazyphils.com<\/a> and origamipoems.com<\/a>; she  designs greeting cards and fabric and likes to work in acrylic, mixed-media, collagraph, and water colour.
\n 
\nJeff Burt<\/a><\/strong> lives in California with his wife amid the redwoods and two-lane roads wide enough for one car. He works in mental health. He has work in The Watershed Review, The Nervous Breakdown, Spry, Atticus Review<\/i>, and The Monarch Review<\/i>. He was the featured 2015 summer issue poet of Clerestory<\/i>, and won the 2017 Cold Mountain Review<\/i> narrative poetry prize.
\n 
\nMatthew Byrne<\/a><\/strong>‘s poetry was featured in The Best American Poetry 2007<\/i>.  He has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and received an International Merit Award from <\/i>Atlanta Review in 2009.  His chapbook, “Silent Partner\u201d, won the 2013 Sow\u2019s Ear Pres<\/i>s Chapbook Award. He received an MFA in poetry from the University of Montana in 1999, and now serves as vice president at an insurance agency in Chicago.
\n 
\nNikki Byrnside<\/a><\/strong> has been a Champaign, IL resident for 21 years, and for about the same amount of time,  worked in an auto salvage\/metal recycling facility. A mother of four children ages 5, 8,10 and 16, is a member of CU Poetry, a writing group that has been an endless source of inspiration and encouragement.
\n 
\nWendy Taylor Carlisle<\/a><\/strong> lives and writes in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is the author of two books and five chapbooks. Most recently They Went to the Beach to Play<\/i> (LoCoFo Chaps, 2017). For more about her work, check her website at www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nAl\u00e1na Clohessy<\/a><\/strong> has spent her life having a love affair with words. She has a Masters of Science and worked as a Biomedical Engineer before leaving the world of industry to pursue her dreams. She went on to become an award winning makeup artist, keying numerous films and photoshoots internationally. In 2018, she has finally made the affair official and is sharing her words with others. She is from Ireland and currently resides in Vancouver, BC.
\n 
\nMichael Coolen<\/a><\/strong> has been published widely, including in Oregon Humanities, The Gold Man Review, Clementine Poetry Journal, Synesthesia Magazine, Broken, The Poetry Quarterly, Oregon Poetry Association<\/i>, et al.
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong> is a carpenter by day, writer by night. Self-taught in each. His most recent book is Foggy Dog: Poems of the Pacific Coast<\/i>.
\n 
\nFred Dale<\/a><\/strong> is a husband to his wife, Valerie, and a father to his occasionally good dog, Earl. He received his Master\u2019s in English from the University of North Florida, where he serves as a Senior Instructor in the Department of English. He is also pursuing an MFA at the University of Tampa, but mostly, he just grades papers.  His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sugar House Review, The Summerset Review, Chiron Review, Crack the Spine, The Evansville Review<\/i>, and others.
\n 
\nkyndall delph<\/a><\/strong> is an undergrad at the University of Kansas studying creative writing, African American studies, and French. Arkansas native and astrology enthusiast, they have been featured in The Kiosk Fifty Seven<\/i>, a KU literary magazine, for their poetry that mostly deals with identity and feeling alone \u2013 in race and gender. They write a lot of sad poetry and drink way too much root beer, but other hobbies include debate and tweeting more than they should (@___kyndall___<\/a>).
\n 
\nWilliam Doreski<\/a><\/strong>‘s work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently A Black River, A Dark Fall<\/i> (Splash of Red, 2018).
\n 
\nMichael Estabrook<\/a><\/strong> has been publishing his poetry in the small press since the 1980s. Hopefully with each passing decade the poems have become more succinct and precise, clear and relatable, more appealing and “universal.” He has published over 20 collections, the latest being Bouncy House<\/i>, edited by Larry Fagin (Green Zone Editions, 2014).
\n 
\nDeirdre Fagan<\/a><\/strong> is a widow, wife, and mother of two who has published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Most recently, her work has appeared in Amaryllis, Eunoia Review, Every Day Fiction, New Verse News<\/i>, and Poetry Breakfast<\/i>. She is also the author to Critical Companion to Robert Frost and has published a number of critical essays. Fagan teaches literature and writing at Ferris State University where she is also the Coordinator of Creative Writing.  Meet her at deirdre-fagan-djds.squarespace.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nKarin L. Frank<\/a><\/strong>‘s poems and stories have been published in numerous literary journals,\u200b popular, and genre magazines both in the U.S. and abroad.
\n 
\nMeg Freer<\/a><\/strong> grew up in Montana and lives in Ontario where she is a member of the Ontario Poetry Society. Her photos and poems have won awards and have been accepted for publication in chapbook anthologies and journals such as NatureWriting, Mothers Always Write, Young Ravens Literary Review, Eastern Iowa Review<\/i>, and Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i>. In 2017 she won a writing fellowship and attended the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi.
\n 
\nPavlina Gatikova<\/a><\/strong> lives in southeastern Massachusetts with her husband. She is originally from the Czech Republic where she completed her Master’s Degree in English and French as Foreign Languages. She has taught English to adult immigrants. Since 2007, she has been working as an ESL teacher in the public schools.
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One<\/i> and Columbia Review<\/i> with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East<\/i> and Midwest Quarterly<\/i>.
\n 
\nStephanie L. Harper<\/a><\/strong> is a Pushcart Prize Nominee, and the author of the chapbook, *This Being Done* (Finishing Line Press, June 2018). Her poems appear in Slippery Elm, Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, Figroot, Harbinger Asylum, The Ibis Head Review, Panoply, <\/i> and elsewhere. She lives with her husband, two teen children, and a geriatric cattle dog in Hillsboro, OR.
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong> is British-born but Bahamian-raised. His education came from good schools, hitchhiking on five continents and working all over the place. His poetry has mostly been published in the UK (Snakeskin, Ambit<\/i>, etc), but also in the US (RAR, Love & Ensuing Madness, <\/i> etc), and in Canada, Australia and India. He lives in his hometown of Governor\u2019s Harbour on Eleuthera.
\n 
\nRuth Hoberman<\/a><\/strong> is a writer living in Chicago. Her poems have appeared in such venues as PANK, Natural Bridge, Spoon River Poetry Review<\/i>, and Iron Horse Literary Review<\/i>. She has poems forthcoming in Calyx<\/i> and The Healing Muse<\/i>.
\n 
\nMichael Kleiza<\/a><\/strong> has published one book of poetry A Poet on the Moon<\/i> (Vocamus Press 2015). He has published in Rhapsody<\/i> a local anthology of Guelph poets and has read his poetry at various venues. He has a science degree in physics and lives in Guelph, Ontario, Canada.
\n 
\nCaroline Koonce<\/a><\/strong> is a high school student based at the Louisiana School for Math, Science, and the Arts in Natchitoches, Louisiana. She joined her school\u2019s writing club for less than noble reasons, and it snowballed from there. These days, her preferred genres of writing are poetry and screenplays. She has one cat named after a road sign and one dog who might be a rat. You can find more about her at carolinekoonce.blogspot.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nH.L. Korbee<\/a><\/strong> is a recent graduate of the Concordia University English Literature and Creative Writing program in Montreal. She works for the government by day, writes poems by night, and stumbles gracelessly through adulthood with whatever time she has left. She has previously been published in THE FWORD Volumes II and III, 6geek.com<\/i>, and MTLBlog<\/i>.
\n 
\nKamryn Kurtzner<\/a><\/strong> is a poet residing in Redwood City, California. She has been published in See Spot Run, The Pine River Anthology, Rat’s Ass Review, The Lavender Review<\/i>, and Michigan’s Best Emerging Poets<\/i>.
\n 
\nYvonne Higgins Leach<\/a><\/strong> is the author of Another Autumn<\/i> (WordTech Editions, 2014).  After earning a Master of Fine Arts from Eastern Washington University, she spent decades balancing a career in communications and public relations, raising a family, and pursuing her love of writing poetry. She is now a full-time poet splitting her time between Spokane and Vashon Island, Washington. For more information, visit yvonnehigginsleach.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nLaurinda Lind<\/a><\/strong> lives in New York’s North Country. Some poetry publications\/ acceptances have been in Comstock Review, The Cortland Review, Ekphrasis, Kestrel, Off the Coast, Paterson Literary Review<\/i>, and Transom<\/i>.
\n 
\nAustralian poet Mandy Macdonald<\/a><\/strong> lives in Aberdeen, Scotland, trying to make sense of the 21st and other centuries. Music, poetry, good wine, and gardening keep her sane. Her work appears in print and online, most recently in Dusk<\/i> (Arachne, 2018), Songs for the Unsung<\/i> (Grey Hen, 2017), Aiblins: New Scottish political poetry<\/i> (Luath, 2016), and journals including Coast to Coast to Coast, Riggwelter<\/i>, and The Curlew<\/i>. The rest of the time, she makes music.
\n 
\nBob MacKenzie<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s poetry has been published across North America and as far away as Australia and India in publications that include The Literary Review of Canada, The Dalhousie Review, Windsor Review<\/i>, and Ball State University Forum<\/i>.  Bob has published thirteen volumes of poetry and prose and has been featured in numerous anthologies.  With the performance ensemble Poem de Terre, Bob has performed his poetry live with original music and released six albums.
\n 
\nJeremy Nathan Marks<\/a><\/strong> is an American writer living in London, ON. Recent poetry has appeared in Muddy River, Morel, Chiron Review, Word Fountain, I-70 Review, The Blue Nib, The Wild Word, Ariel Chart<\/i> and The Wire’s Dream<\/i>. He is a 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry.
\n 
\nWhen not hiding in the fifteenth century, Jennifer A. McGowan<\/a><\/strong> hits words with spanners until they approximate poems. Her latest book, With Paper for Feet<\/i>, containing many poems of folk tales and dramatic monologues, is available from Arachne Press:https:\/\/arachnepress.com\/shop\/. She has featured in many magazines and journals, such as Rialto, Pank, <\/i> and Prole<\/i>, in various and occasionally surprising countries.
\n 
\nE.V. McLoughlin<\/a><\/strong>‘s poems were published in Making Memories (CAP 2015), Connections<\/i> (CAP 2016), Between light and half light<\/i> (Shalom\/Crescent writers 2015) anthologies as well as in Panning for Poems, Rat’s Ass Review magazines. Her poems were longlisted for Seamus Heaney Award for New Writing 2016 and shortlisted for the Fresher Writing Prize 2017. E.V. loves coffee, books, and city lights and lives in Co. Down, Northern Ireland with her husband and son.
\n 
\nHaley Montgomery<\/a><\/strong> is currently a student studying Kinesiology in Canada. She writes and reads poems to understand emotions better. She spends most of her time outdoors where she find nature to be one of the best catalysts for writing, drawing and  other artistic things.
\n 
\nMike L. Nichols<\/a><\/strong> is a graduate of Idaho State University. Mike was awarded the 2014 Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize. Look for his poetry in Black Rock & Sage, Rogue Agent, Tattoo Highway, Spider Mirror Journal, Post Card Poems and Prose<\/i>, and elsewhere. Find more at mikenicholsauthor.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nJ. Ray Paradiso<\/a><\/strong> is a recovering academic in the process of refreshing himself as a street photographer and an experimental writer.
\n 
\nBruce Deitrick Price<\/a><\/strong> is the author of seven books, most recently one on education called “Saving K-12.” (Please!) His novels range from noir detective to experimental journeys that incorporate a lot of chance, e.g., “American Dreams.” His biggest commercial success was “Too Easy” (Simon & Schuster), hailed by  Kinky Friedman as the “unwed mother of all page-turners.” Price has also been an Art Director and digital artist. His literary site is Lit4u.com<\/a>.
\n 
\nAshley Prinzo<\/a><\/strong> is a new writer from New Jersey. She will be finishing her MFA in Nonfiction at Emerson College in the fall. When she’s not writing like mad, she enjoys binge eating, befriending local bartenders and blogging about the importance of mental health. She wishes to raise depression awareness with her poetry and prose.
\n 
\nBen Rasnic<\/a><\/strong> currently resides in Bowie, Maryland. Author of four published collections (three available from amazon.com), Ben’s poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
\n 
\nMaree Reedman<\/a><\/strong> lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her cheeky cockatiels and husband. She wrote her first poem when she was a prison psychologist, noticing how willie wagtails waltzed on the barbed wire. Her poetry has been published in the Grieve Anthologies, Hecate, StylusLit<\/i>, and won awards in the Ipswich Poetry Feast, including a mentorship with Carmen Leigh Keates. She likes to write poetry that has a story and says something about being human.
\n 
\nStacy Rollins<\/a><\/strong> is a writer, visual artist, singer, Rennie, and fitness enthusiast who lives in Park Slope. She earned her M.A. in Creative Writing at FSU and has authored two books, Truer Faults and Learning to Read. Her other crowning achievements include designing her own religion, “Stanism,” while in law school, and also dropping out of law school. Her work has appeared in Atticus Review, Everyday Genius, Diversion Press, Black Heart Magazine, Crack the Spine, Poetry Quarterly, New York Dreaming, Garbanzo, Nailed Magazine, Spine, Shantih<\/i>, and The Oleander Review<\/i>.
\n 
\nAparna Upadhyaya Sanyal<\/a><\/strong> holds an MA from Kings College, London. She is a recipient of the 14th Beullah Rose Poetry Prize by Smartish Pace. She is featured on the masthead of the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review as a Frequent Contributor<\/i> for 2018. Her poetry has appeared\/ is forthcoming in Smartish Pace, SOFTBLOW, Broad River Review, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Poetry Breakfast, The Visitant, The Same, Leaves of Ink, The Paragon Journal, <\/i> et al. Her first book is slated for release in mid 2018. She lives with her 4-year-old son and husband in Pune, India. Find her work on her Facebook Page: facebook.com\/aparnasanyalwrites\/<\/a>.
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong> is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Enizagam<\/i> and Healing Muse<\/i> among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called<\/i> and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters\u2019 Journey in Photography and Poetry<\/i>.
\n 
\nWilliam R. Soldan<\/a><\/strong> lives in the Rust Belt city of Youngstown, Ohio. He holds a BA in English Literature from Youngstown State University and an MFA from the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts program. His work appears in publications such as Elm Leaves Journal, Gordon Square Review, Jump: International Journal of Modern Poetry, Ohio\u2019s Best Emerging Poets Anthology<\/i>, and others. You can find him at
\nwww.williamrsoldan.com<\/a> if you\u2019d like to connect.
\n 
\nAlec Solomita<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s fiction has appeared in The Mississippi Review, Southwest Review, Southword, Peacock, <\/i> and The Adirondack Review<\/i>, among other publications; his poetry in Literary Orphans, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Streetlight, 3Elements Literary Review<\/i>, and elsewhere. His chapbook, Do Not Forsake Me<\/i>, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2017. He was recently chosen as an honorary finalist by Winning Writers for his story “The Return.” He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts.
\n 
\nDavid Spicer<\/a><\/strong> has had poems in Chiron Review, The New Verse News, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Easy Street, Third Wednesday, Reed Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Ginger Collect, Yellow Mama, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review<\/i>, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Stor<\/i>y and five chapbooks, he\u2019s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw<\/i>, and Ion Books. His latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree<\/i>, available from Flutter Press.
\n 
\nJohn Stupp<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s third poetry collection Pawleys Island<\/i> was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. His manuscript Summer Job<\/i> won the 2017 Cathy Smith Bowers Poetry Prize and will be published in 2018 by Main Street Rag. He lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
\n 
\nAnne Swannell<\/a><\/strong>‘s poems have appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, Anglo-Welsh Review, the Americas Review<\/i>, and most major Canadian literary journals. Work has recently been seen in anthologies from Leaf Press, Kind of a Hurricane Press, Chuffed Buff Books, OWF Press, and Polar Expressions. She has also published three books of poetry, “Drawing Circles on the Water,” “Mall” (Rowan Books, Edmonton, 1991) and “Shifting” (Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, 2008).
\n 
\nSusan Thornton<\/a><\/strong>‘s work has previously appeared in  Rats Ass Review, Best American Mystery Stories 2016, Dark Fire Fiction<\/i> (UK), and Puerto Del Sol<\/i>. Her memoir, On Broken Glass: Loving and Losing John Gardner, was published by Carroll and Graf in 2000. She lives and writes in Binghamton New York where she is gainfully employed as an instructor of French.
\n 
\nTerry Tierney<\/a><\/strong> has poems coming in Third Wednesday<\/i> and Cold Creek Review<\/i>, and his poems have appeared in Kalliope, Kansas Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Puerto del Sol, California Quarterly, Poetry Northwest, Cottonwood Review, Great River Review, Lullwater Review<\/i> and other publications. He has stories coming in Fictive Dreams<\/i> and SPANK the CARP<\/i>, and his stories have appeared in Literally Stories<\/i> and Big Bridge<\/i>. He\u2019s currently writing poems and stories while rewriting a sixties novel.
\n 
\nJoy Ueno<\/a><\/strong> has grown up in southern California, where she currently resides. In her spare time, she enjoys watching roller derby, reading literature of all shapes and sizes, and trying out recipes on her friends and family.
\n 
\nRichard Weaver<\/a><\/strong> lives in Baltimore\u2019s Inner Harbor where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college, and is a seasonal snowflake counter (unofficially). Recent 2018 acceptances include: Aberration Labyrinth, Slant, FRIGG, Slush Pile, decomP, South Florida Poetry Journal<\/i>, and Concho River Review<\/i>.
\n 
\nAfter many years as a visual artist and musician, Patricia Wentzel<\/a><\/strong> took up poetry as part of her recovery from a severe episode of Bipolar Disorder. She thanks the Sacramento Poetry Center, Sacramento Prose and Poetry Meetup and Women\u2019s Wisdom Art program for their support over the past three years. Her work has been published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Neutrons and Protons, Sacramento Voices, Poetry Now, The Light Ekphrastic<\/i> and others.
\n 
\nDeborah Wong<\/a><\/strong> was born in Kuala Lumpur and currently lives in Subang Jaya, Malaysia. Her work has been published in Crack The Spine, Streetcake Magazine, East Jasmine Review, Eksentrika, Wherewithal, Thiscene, Thought Catalog<\/i> and other international and local online journals and magazines. She has two forthcoming short fictions to be featured in The Stray Branch<\/i>. Instagram: @petitedeborah\/<\/a>.
\n 
\nStella Wulf<\/a><\/strong> lives in South West France. Her work has been widely published both in print and online. Publications include Obsessed With Pipework, The High Window, Raum, Prole, Ink Sweat & Tears, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Smeuse<\/i>, and many others. Her poems have also appeared in several anthologies including, The Very Best of 52, three drops, Clear Poetry Anthology, and forthcoming in #Me Too. She has an MA in Creative Writing, from Lancaster University.
\n 
\nMark Young<\/a><\/strong> is the author of over forty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His work has been widely anthologized, & his essays & poetry translated into a number of languages. His most recent books are random salamanders<\/i>, a Wanton Text Production, & Circus economies<\/i>, from gradient books of Finland.
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Edited by Roderick Bates<\/p>\n<\/h5>\n

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RAT’S ASS REVIEW SPRING-SUMMER ISSUE 2018 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/p>\n<\/h4>\n

 
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\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

        (Cover Photo Kiss My . . . by J. Ray Paradiso)     Paul David Adkins     WEAVER THE WEATHERMAN ISSUES A TRAVEL WARNING TO CERTAIN MIAMI NEIGHBORHOODS ON SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1971     Don\u2019t go there. Everyone is hot.   The atmosphere\u2019s akimbo in some certain parts of town.   […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":75,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2862","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2862","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2862"}],"version-history":[{"count":70,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2862\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3322,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2862\/revisions\/3322"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2862"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}