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Fish, sculpture by Tom Rudd |
Kathyrn Almy
Six Years Later, You’ll
Tell Me How Much You Enjoyed This Weekend
When we get to Bullhead Lake
it is late, our pizza already cold, and the bedroom
window broken. We drag the mattress
in front of the fireplace until the cabin fills
with smoke. The fire out, we
shiver until morning comes gray and damp. In a leaky
boat we catch three sunfish,
throw them back. You talk about pumpkinseeds and
drum riffs. I tell you nothing
is right in our year-old marriage, as if everything else is,
and I cry all night to punish
you. The next day is perfect autumn. Before leaving, we
feed the rest of our night crawlers
to bullfrogs on the shore. They use their front feet
like hands, stuffing their wide,
hard mouths in a worm-eating contest.
Kathryn Almy is a freelance writer
living in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Her poems have been published in Willow Review, shady side review, All Poetry is Prayer:
A Fire Anthology, Lansing Online News, and City of the Big Shoulders: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry.
April
Endres
Never-Ending Kansas
cirrus clouds sweep nested pines
hidden in the folds of horizon
valleys cradling the sun in soft ripples
skeletons of dogwood whitened, fragile-boned
roadside trees bending prairie-side
safe from factories and progress
bronzed wheat welcoming the haze of dusk
rolls of hay bundled tightly
adorning otherwise barren acres
and I am only passing through
rolling along with tumbleweed lightness
only earth and asphalt on cobalt canvas
before the distant shadows of telephone wires
emerge through my windshield
severing the sky like tiny veins
strung out across brittle, pollen air
and if I lit a match
I could set the whole state ablaze
but I just speed through
in search of civilization
April Endres received her
B.A. in communications from McDaniel College in Westminster, Maryland. She currently
works part-time as a freelance writer and lives in Portage, Michigan.
Katie
Prout
It starts out small enough
It starts out small enough. The prick
of sweat nipping your neck's nape
as you glance up at the street sign
for the third
time; the shape of the hand
on the cold glass of a passing bus, the shadow
of a palm lit by light from elsewhere, from
somewhere
that’s not here, the palm the suggestion
of a hand, not the thing itself. You too are
suggestive
of more than you are: a hint, a hush,
a rough draft of someone in the know, someone
who has a working knowledge of the public
transportation system, of where
to get a haircut in this city. Where to buy
cream. Where is the Hilton? the woman
in the plastic kerchief asks as she moves
towards you slowly on the street in clothes
the color of trash bags, moves as if she left
her home looking
for you, as if you've been her plan all
along, but the lipless socket of her mouth
goes slack in surprise when you don't stop but
duck and
run, mouthing as you pass I don't know, I don't
know, I'm sorry. Nervous to hurry to a home
that will never be yours, despite the lavender
by its steps, you trip as she turns to watch
you
go and you hate her, just a little bit, for
seeing how
even the ground spits you back out, for seeing
that you know now just how big a word
lonely is, the sear of its fearful smell, the
gray
of need on its monstrous face.
Upon graduating with honors from
Kalamazoo College’s writing program in 2009, Katie Prout spent one year as a youth development leader in an after school
program for at-risk youth, one year as a coordinator in a shelter for homeless, mentally ill or otherwise struggling adults,
and the last five months farming in Ireland. She has worked as a freelance writer for Hyperink Press and is currently
freelances with Revue Mid-Michigan.
Nicholas Canu
A Dream Starring Myself and
Ginsburg’s Corpse-Ghost
I dreamt you wrong, I thought
we were together
in Sockland, in the center of
some mythically
unnamed metropolis circa 1987
where you were aging
and waste management was using
our bodies
of work for kindling. The ashes
blowing like locusts
on avenues until we churned
back together and coated
skyscrapers in paper scraps,
shook them out, peppered
their contents over the city
and we were dressed
for walking, we gave our blackened
hands to stunned
stock traders and debutantes,
we stitched them up
from concrete with sherbet,
we ran about and ate
our dessert in neon stockings
and I think that’s all
that we will ever be, just our
city of floating
words and ice cream and knee-highs.
Nicholas Canu is a senior at Kalamazoo
College in Kalamazoo, MI where he studies English with a writing emphasis. He just completed work
on a senior thesis in poetry and will be graduating with his B.A. in June 2012.
Jasmine An
The summer I turned nine, my
dad made me a cow. I kept her
in the garage next to the old
boxes my family had not yet
unpacked and the bike my dad
rode to work year round. After
the mowers had roared over the
lawn, I dragged her to the grass
and pressed the gasoline-scented
clippings to her cardboard lips.
While she ruminated, I learned
the names of her stomachs and chanted
them like a prayer: Rumen, Reticulum,
Omasum, Abomasum.
Trying to reach her udder, I
rapped my knuckles on the wardrobe
box of her belly, and her girth
echoed like a drum. Her corrugated
sides grated and reverberated
with pleasure as I rubbed her teats
between my fingers. The warm
texture of latex glove was slippery
and stiff with milk against
my palms. I set my steel pail between her legs
and rested my forehead against
her flank as I worked, murmuring sweet
words for her ears only. I wept
as she grew old, a bend developing
in her neck that dragged her
head sideways, her black eyes listing
mournfully to the floor. When
her tail fell off, I opened the flaps
of her ass and reached into
her to staple a new one to the underside
of her spine. Finished, I closed
her and sealed her shut with packing
tape. It was my new bike that
killed her. Red, with nine gears.
The handlebars tore into her
side, leaving a dent that never healed.
The wooden dowels of her legs
grew weak and rattled in their sockets.
Her flanks were streaked with
grease from the bike’s chain. When she began
to flounder, flailing hooves
bruising our shins, ponderous girth pressing
against us as we tried to wheel
our bikes from the garage, my father
decided we had to flatten her.
I watched him slit the tape about her neck
and she crumpled. We set her
carcass in the alley by the trash cans. I looked back
and saw her hipbones jutting
sharp and lonely; the corners of an empty box.
Jasmine An is a first-year student
at Kalamazoo College. Originally from Ann Arbor, she was an active participant in the literary scene at the Neutral Zone Teen
Center. Two of her short stories were published in the Neutral Zone's annual anthology Knock on Sky. She is a member
of Kalamazoo College's Poetry Collective and the DeLux Poetry Slam Team.
Kate
Belew
The Taste of Swan
Easy to lose your way in traffic.
Lost, in the snow and shit from
winter
was a swan in the median,
orange billed, white winged,
I turned the radio down,
his wingspan, his arched neck,
his beautiful arched neck
snapping. How easy it would
be to hit him
flying one hundred and three
down the shoulder,
I know what you did to her,
with your feathers, your beating
wings.
Kate Belew is an English Major at Kalamazoo College and
from Marshall, Michigan. Kate spent a summer at Interlochen’s writing program, and often writes about soldiers in Iraq
and Afghanistan. Kate’s work will be published in the 2012’s edition of the Cauldron, the literary magazine
at Kalamazoo College.
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Darters by Tom Rudd |
Johnathan Craig
9303 East Jefferson
After Pops parked along the
curb cluttered by
junkies and drug dealers I ascended
the sorrow
stained staircase that occupied
the space in front
of ninety- three-oh-three East
Jefferson and came face
to face with a door marked one-oh-three.
I was standing there in the
place where in a split
second a pile of niggas shooting
dice became a broken
bunch of brothas beggin the
hired henchman with the nine
millimeter handgun to take the
money not a life.
At the back of the bunch was
lil bro grippin the glossy
white cubes covered in black
specks.
Dice often remind me of my monumental
movement from public school
to private where my face
led to me fighting a war on
two fronts.
Until now I felt as if I might
win, but now
I stand here in the hall of
your last breath.
Johnathan Craig resides in Detroit,
Michigan. He is a recent grad of Kalamazoo College where he majored in English with a concentration in poetry. There he studied
with Diane Seuss. The poem above is from his senior thesis, a collection of poems focusing on his brother’s
murder.
Lauren Moran
Witchcraft
I slip my skin off after
midnight and hang it in the closet next to the remnants of a hundred ex-lovers and my father’s pocket watch. They say
it’s the devil’s work, you know, but I just want to feel the wind vibrate these two hundred bones of mine. I move
all my tendons and teeth cradled against tight vessels and hushed organs towards the lake that presses up against the mountain’s
edge. They say I’m full of misery, a lost cause living in a rotting cabin, but they’ve never felt the cold water
hit every single nerve ending, all those uncountable stars exploding at once.
Brother
He leaves me here, tucks my
weight into the soft sediments of the riverbed, fingers stretch to unravel threads, pulls off my watch, slips my ring into
his pocket. He’ll claim tragedy, a lost brother swallowed by the forest that creates myths, while a murder of crows
suck lick my bones clean with the soft points of their tongues. The layers of water sink me deep, begin to rinse and wring
away my only song. This is a rhythmic ache, waiting for someone to come here and give a name to what’s left.
The Quilter
Sitting on top of the world,
this woman with tree bark skin stretches the corners of worn out cloth together. She stitches together the history of the
world and you can see the shimmer of the misshapen squares and moons spread across her lap, spilling off as she sews together
your mother’s death and my inability to cry with thread spun from dust and air. They pull into each other. They are
forever connected to those bombings in the country you can’t remember the name of and the first slick creature that
crawled out of the water and onto the mud. Take a deep breath, you didn’t always have those lungs you know. When she
stops combining heartache with history, the world will end. Don’t cry,
we all thought it would last forever too. A stitch here and a knot there, that’s all it is. Yank the thread through
and pray that it holds through the night.
Lauren Moran attended Kalamazoo College
where she studied English and creative writing. Her work has appeared in multiple issues of the college’s literary magazine,
The Cauldron.
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