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Star Land by Sniedze Rungis

Rebecca Schumejda
The Gills of Kites

Hold the tropical fish

like dirty laundry to air.

I’ll take the reel,


give some slack,

look past mistakes

into your cool blue eyes.


Our daughter’s busy

decapitating dandelions,

but she listens to the wind


carrying our thoughts up

before dropping them.


She is busy, but she sees

the string tangled

around my heart tightening


as I take back what I gave you

and we start from the beginning


again. She holds her breath

like a fish taken from water

when the kite lifts.


You tell me to give more

and the fins soar above us

the way we hoped they would.



The Heart’s Unwritten Constitution


Since language

causes more problems

than it solves,

I fashion the hairs of your shaven beard

into a lopsided heart

around dried toothpaste and shaving cream

in the sink basin

and leave it for you

to translate.



Rebecca Schumejda is the author of the full-length collection of Falling Forward published by sunnyoutside press and also several chapbooks. Most recently her work has or will appear in The New York Quarterly, Right Hand Pointing, Red Fez, Home Planet News, and Breadcrumb Scabs. Her Web site is



Selva Rolin



                                                                                        like a saw wolfing wood, I 

                                                 hunched behind a tree and watched the scene—legs battle-

                                           ready, heart a tribal drum, shock caping eyes. The silver beast 

                                        flailed a fist of trunk in the air, demanding clearance and passage. He 

                                       girdled Uncle’s waist with an iron snorkel and hoisted him to the 

                                     heavens as a hell-saddled child to an expired doll, uprooting that toy 

                                   roadblock from uncertainty. Armed without chance, Uncle flew in a 

                                  pocket of wrath and pounded parched soil like thunder. Fanning his 

                                ears and vexed by the surviving remainder, the ivory-tusked choler 

                               gaited forward, skewered flesh and wrenched back; he stomped on 

                              Uncle’s chest, a massive, leathery pillar crushing pleading ribs. The 

                             steely rogue trumpeted defeat and stampeded startled shrubs; he 

                            plashed through chocolaty water to purge fate-spilled blood. I 

                            stood over Uncle,                           his face discerning a 

                           kneeling death                                       at his side. I 

                           scooped him                                              up, a 

                          bird without                        

                          sky, and 

                         carried him 

         to our hut. Where the 

    sun hailed the day I 

                       spit, then 




                       to his 








Selva Rolin graduated from California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo, California with a BA in English and Spanish, and has been teaching for nearly eight years. Her poetry has appeared in various publications including The New Writer, the novel Love Like That, by Amanda Hill, and Poetry. Currently Selva is seeking representation for her first completed literary fiction novel. She is working on a second and third novel, learning French, performing in Spanish theatre, dancing Flamenco, and discovering life with her soul mate in Auvergne, France. She's deeply inspired by anything that evokes emotion: nature, music, art, travel, people, culture, literature, best friends, and rouge, rouge wine.


Mary Christine Delea


How to Get into Trouble, Film Noir Style

We’ll make it look like a suicide.
We’ll push him off the midnight train.
We’ll fool with her medication.
We’ll cut the black Buick’s breaks.
I’ll hide a knife in the flowerpot out back.

Wear this pair of calfskin gloves.
Wear this white carnation.
Wear this gray overcoat.
Wear this brunette wig.

We’ll get him after a few drinks.
We’ll sabotage her wheelchair.
We’ll mess with the gas at the beach house.
We’ll stage a break-in.
I’ve got an untraceable gun.

Make sure the neighbors see you kissing and making nice.
Make sure he doesn’t know Skinny Louie’s been sprung from Sing-Sing.
Make sure the cab driver will remember you.
Make sure you to buy more insurance.

Just pick up the hitchhiker standing near the diner.
Just make reservations for the morning flight to Sacramento.
Just cross the border at sunset and go directly to the hotel.
Just stay in front of the theater, no matter what you hear.

I know a guy who owes me a favor.
I know a guy who can get us fake passports.
I know a guy who understands fires.
I know a guy who’ll do anything I ask.

It’ll be easy, beautiful.
Just follow the plan, toots.
Nothing can go wrong, sweetheart.
I’ve never felt this way before, darling.

The coppers in this town are all on the take.
Let them send in a private dick.
G-men have other things to worry about.
No flatfoot will figure this out.

Of course I’ll still love you when this is over.
Why are you talking crazy all a sudden?
You can trust me to never sell you down the river.
No, I never called anyone but you on that payphone.

When did you get so suspicious?
What are you doing with that gun?
Baby, everything’s going so well—
Don’t blow it by doing something stupid.



Mary Christine Delea is from Long Island, New York and has lived all over the country. She has worked as a college professor, poetry editor, retail manager, and social worker, and is currently a stay-at-home writer and quilter in a Portland suburb. Delea’s poems have been published in one full-length collection, The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky (Main Street Rag Press), two chapbooks, numerous anthologies, and many print and on-line journals. Upcoming and recent publications include Zone 3, New Ohio Review, New Mexico Poetry Review, and Mid-American Review.



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