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Chris Lord
Welcome
to da UP eh
Elvis
sings Heartbreak Hotel
on
a jukebox at the Four Star Motel.
A
moose in a miner’s hat sticks her head
out
of a white Thunderbird convertible.
A
wolf played by James Dean pulls up
on
a Harley, fox tail on his handlebars.
A
woman drives five hours
(time
enough to change her mind)
in
a white Avis rental car from Detroit
to
the Mackinac Bridge, her desperation
a
clumsy Hell-diver, bones heavy like the loon’s,
her
alarm tremolo a confused laugh
swallowed
by the car radio’s blasting music
as
she leaps from a newly painted green rail
into
blue-green water.
The
Four Star proprietor says
if
she is fortunate, her body will drift
from
disturbed white-caps to aqua wavelets,
float
long enough to be recovered—
otherwise
she will spend eternity
in
the Straits’ icy bed.
Overhead
an elegy in flight dives
as
I try to fathom eternity,
question
if time as we know it exists
beneath
these waters that preserve
all
who enter their depths, that echo
the
hammering of a copper miner
lost
in the shafts of this hard land,
the
call of an orphaned moose calf,
the
howl of a wolf grieving for his mate.
A
loon wails the urgent need
to
come together, his survival cry
of
one two three notes rising in pitch,
drowning
out the final reverberation
of
the lost woman’s lament, diving
into
night’s black and blue green water.
š
Oxygen
(in memory of Charlene Berels)
Open
midnight’s falcon eye, put on its yellow ring,
sleepwalk
on the dark side of the moon.
Pull
from craters a new definition of beauty.
Rise
from the wound, claim its v-shaped scar, say
This
is my body, it is endangered, is delicious.
Breathe
in, breathe out.
Place
trust and tenacity on disparate shoulders.
Massage
the bully backbone of courage.
Dance
with the raptor showing off in the sky.
Carry
wild grasses under your wings,
mix
brushfires with graphite washes.
Glue
feathers to the cover of a blue-gray book.
Breathe
in, breathe out.
Gather
the rumors moss whispers to the log,
step
with your hands onto a nesting ledge.
Prepare
a saucer of leaves, a bundle of sticks.
Push
out the sadness that takes up a lot of space.
Kick
start the wind, ratchet up the rain.
Close
the book. Be a purple glory vine.
Climb
an old tree into a magical bedroom
where
Beatles’ songs jump and play.
Breathe
in. Swoop like a falcon, catch yellow rays
in
mid-air. Offer waiting spirits dandelion leis.
Puff.
Ask them if they can make it better.
š
The
Red Rake
Girl
on an autumn eve – bleached bangs, mascara eyes,
Kleenex
stuffed
in her bra – painted lips pouting in black and
white.
She
sits on crumbling concrete steps, leafs through pages
of True
Confessions
until it is too dark to see her push wiry gray hair
from
her creased forehead, return the square photo of
her
youth to her wallet.
A bright cinder sparks this moment of half light –
headlights
shine on raked mounds of leaves – stars signal,
turn
into the arms of the
woman, frame her as rain arrives to pelt her cheeks,
to
calm the yellow smoldering. She stands, picks up the
red
rake – Small comfort,
this knowledge that nothing is burning. Where is
Father
with his hand out the car window, flicking the
Lucky
Strike
or, cigarette hanging from his mouth, raking
Michigan’s
fall, his ashes scattered by sudden fierce
November
storms.
She stares at the busy street, the beauty of her
father
blurring on glossy pavement. His voice is rusty,
rides
a shiny red
fender, brings color back to her face. She faces
the
continuous stream of headlights, rakes withered
plants
under autumn’s
damp leaves, is grateful for the gift of decay.
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Chris Lord’s poetry has appeared in several journals, and won places in several competitions
(e.g., Current, Detroit Women Writers, Writer’s Digest). She founded Word’n Woman
Press in March of 2007 and edited and published the Bear River Writers Respond to War print edition, and the
Writers Reading at Sweetwaters anthology. Chris was also editor of the four on-line issues of Bear River Review.
Chris’ chapbook Field Guide to Luck was published by Pudding House Publications. Chris is co-host
of the monthly series, Writers Reading at Sweetwaters.
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Erika Moya
With
Your Eyes Fast Shut
Our
love this Mobius twist
a
smoky character wet and damp
in
a loose fist
till
its vapors unwrap
and
nest.
One
around your unwed finger
the
other along your Adam’s ribs,
retracing
every one like silk—
and
climbing up and up
to
that last perfect hollow.
The
side of your neck and
you
with
your eyes fast shut.
Against
our arguments our slow and
Crawl-like
making up.
That
loud overbearing quiet of two souls whose egos cannot share
a
place together.
We
can hear the comings and
goings
of lovers or mothers
or
delivery men,
and
how I miss America.
I
am your translator here but I cannot translate
between
the me and you.
Trying
and then forgetting and
the
room about to explode with
no
space but for one of us.
The
stubborn me—
the
past married me
wants
to fix us or me at least.
Because
I love you though
I
can feel your love receding—
a
wave returning to its larger pool
a
laugh hiding amidst a crowd
a
face which turns a corner
forgetting
to look back.
I
can only love what is here the amount
which
each day becomes
a
little less
a
smaller still,
and
you
with
your eyes fast shut.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erika Moya is working writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has previously
appeared in the University of California Riverside’s
Art & Literary Journal-Mosaic, Qaartsiluni, Holly Rose Review, Toronto Quarterly, and
an anthology put out by Goldfish Press. She will be attending the MFA
program at University of North Carolina Wilmington this fall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rachel Gruskin
Five
City Senses
Some girls only
came to leave.
The end of your
cigarette is vibrating and the city is burning.
It’s important
to look beyond the bronze shine of shoulder and
maneuver past
the untouched hairs.
Oh temporary
fire ─
you have all
these New York angels twirling,
glossy lipped
and ugly
in a halo of
your smoke.
Climb through
the haze,
the mean geometry
of this city,
and please go
to where it’s soft.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rachel Gruskin is a recent MFA
Poetry graduate of The New School in NYC. She has work published and forthcoming in Westview and Caffeine Destiny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sergio Ortiz
Gray
and Gay
I’ve
thought about being dead,
watched
my bloated self in the mirror,
waited
for strangers
to
take care of the funeral.
I’ve
thought about dinner parties,
the
theatre: things no longer
in
the budget. Sex. Doctors.
I’ve
thought about cohesion,
Clairol,
Herbal Essence
and
Eyeliner. Friends.
I’ve
thought about outreach groups,
raisins,
peaches, and kiwis.
Still-life
paintings in my city.
I’ve
thought about American Idol,
churches
and meals on wheels.
About
competition,
and
another twenty years of less,
and
less, and less of a line
that
does not disappear on its own.
I’ve
thought about mangrove crabs
living
in mud holes, pushed
back
into the closet.
š
Strange
Flesh
The
rumble had finally started.
Battalions
of fairies and dykes
volunteered
for training.
There
were no long dead skeletons
from
Sodom unburied.
We
sang elegies to the brave
chained
to wrought iron gates
in
Eastern cities,
the
ones that live in fear
of
being stoned,
the
ones forced to marry,
leave
home and hide
from
father, uncle and brother.
Chained
to wrought iron gates
in
cemeteries
somewhere
in Western cities,
we
sang elegies to the brave,
gunned
or stabbed,
beaten
like paillard with bats,
hung
on barbwire,
smoked
and aged while staring
their
country in the face,
asking
for a marriage license
from
their grave,
below
eucalyptus and grass.
Last
night I had one list
of
reveries to read,
still
sitting at the back of the bus,
to
the puppet merchants
who
sell our dreams short.
Did
they listen,
hear
the hurricane approach,
or
did they blame us
for
another swine pandemic?
Last
night I took up arms
and
called to prayer,
conscious
but asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sergio Ortiz grew up in Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American
University, and philosophy at World University. He was an ESL teacher most of his life, but also worked as a Daily Living
Skills Instructor for the El Paso Lighthouse for the Blind. His work has been published in: Salt River Review,
Modern English Tanka, and Yellow Medicine, The Battered Suitcase, Shipwright, Loch
Raven Review, Rust and Moth, and over fifty other journals. Ortiz now lives in San Juan, Puerto Rico.
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