Vengeance Chance Can Do
you were beautiful once too,
like fire on the snow of your face.
always an adulteress
and I wasn’t
the fool standing outside.
like fire on the snow of your face,
looked standing with him.
And I wasn’t
the fool standing outside
the brick at his parked car.
looked standing with him,
held him by the window.
the brick at his parked car?
know. I really wish I did.
held him by the window
you used to hold me.
know. I really wish I did
who threw the brick did.
you used to hold me
of your little lies?
who threw the brick did
of your little lies.
throw the brick.
vengeance chance can do.
always an adulteress.
throw the brick.
vengeance chance can do:
you were beautiful once too.
is the author of How To Say Goodbye (Aortic Books, 2011). His poems or stories
have appeared in journals such as Anderbo,
Arts & Letters, Barrow Street, Hanging Loose, LA Review, Nimrod, Rattle,
River Styx, Vestal Review, and many others. His poetry has been featured in
Verse Daily and the Best American Poetry
fiction was chosen for the 2013 Sundress Best of the Net. A former U.S. Army
soldier, he lives near Seattle, Washington.
‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (25)
scene…I’ll screen off vigor...
overwhelmed with photos –
beggarly peep-show lair.
cloak, floating on a hook,
highlighting of dead time.
‘Blood Shot Silk’ – Deleted Scene (28)
string-section clambers its incidents.
trails at an unshut hatch. Cut to…
across a jade wall –
exponential, mischief-making Star,
lipstick, hurled-back hair.
fluffs his lines.
Barnes is the winner of the Northern Arts Writers Award. His poetry collection,
published by Chanticleer Press in 2005.
Marguerite Keil Flanders
has not yet come
to an end,
but he no longer
brothers are alive.
names and details,
swallowed by high tide.
I can almost
hear his mind
He is trying
and sorting and trying.
he faces the water,
arms in circles to warm
muscles. He talks constantly,
again how old he is, as if
establishes our connection,
as if my
answer, ninety one,
still on earth.
me a dream from last night:
holding a drawer full of his things,
tipped them all into the ocean.
draws him forward, he turns,
himself backwards into the water,
frame sends up splashes
absolved of all his fears.
emptying, though I know
more pain and release to come.
drawer has been spilled,
already started to say goodbye.
Keil Flanders is a member of Ocean State Poets, an outreach group whose mission
is to give voice to those who may not feel heard. Her work has appeared in The
Main Street Rag, Nimrod International
Journal, Comstock Review, Poetry East, Caesura, and other literary magazines.
Dana Guthrie Martin
hacks beside his house,
clapboard and cracked windows,
paint of his life flecked
leaf-shadow from an ash tree
toward him. Earth powders
smothers air. Mornings like this,
goes breathless at his daughter
woman all at once, like a light
in the kitchen that can never
off—not as she milks cows,
attends to the everyday.
way men watch her, even
At night, the farmer gasps
wife’s light skin, her dark hair,
mood. Her body is the moon,
wind blows, the house barely
The farmer relives a dust storm
his horses on their sides—
dirt-encrusted nostrils, their mouths
how they fell where they stood
their eyes, each set of lungs
inner sea of red soil.
cold outside, and heat. Light that stunned
unaccustomed eye. Night was not as dark
as it was
(Who loves a calf the way they love
a child? Who tends her wounds, clears her
I was born, my family told me
had to die so I could begin in my own right.
(The calf’s front hooves, yellow as nicotine
The calf’s pink legs.)
When I didn’t breathe, my mother
air with the command to honor the God
(My brother takes the limbs and pulls hard.
Covers the nasal passages tight.)
I was born choking
the dry air of summer.
(The calf shuddered
then released, her hair still slick with
fluid, body heavy
I was told only one of us could live
radioactive rabbit dung
up to two
thousand acres from the site.
radioactive coyote dung.
the coyotes found the rabbits
in their burrows and ate them.
to expect deaths out here
will miss the dead—
and predator where these came from.
to expect—no, to anticipate—
the larger death for which we gather
wives give birth and keep house,
file in and out, in and out
as we are told.
inside the site and inside our homes,
coyote will sniff us out
end to this—
insurance, our bright future,
Dana Guthrie Martin’s work
has appeared in numerous
journals, including Barrow Street,
Failbetter, Fence, Knockout Literary Magazine, Pif Magazine, and Vinyl Poetry.
Her chapbooks include Tomorrow I Will Love You at the Movies,
coauthored with Jay Snodgrass (Hyacinth Girl Press, forthcoming), In the Space Where
I Was (Hyacinth Girl
Press, 2012), Toward What Is Awful
(YesYes Books, 2012), and The Spare Room (Blood
Pudding Press, 2009). She edits Cascadia
Gail C. DiMaggio
Story of Your Body
body first, hard and anyway.
worry over unmet minds and dead endings
falling for those shoulders? The two of us young
Street, I kept dropping back to savor the breadth of them,
their tempo against the blurred motion of traffic, and you knew
how I loved
your narrow eyes. Their Atlantic color. The way they
me. The snare drum rasp of your voice – a dark timbre
as if I’d
laid my palm against the sounding warmth of an old radio. I loved
hands, fingertips poised on the trombone slide
the pulse of the jazz. Even when years muted us,
would press along my back all night – hungry,
settling for the middle. When it ended,
beat stopped under my hand, and a tuneless buzz
the metal-grey room, I left it to the unloving tongue
and took away nothing. Nothing that will touch
ache of my body.
DiMaggio spent years watching her husband survive and occasionally flourish as
a jazz musician. She has decided it’s
time to find out what she has to say for herself. She writes from a long perspective
– but up
close – about what it’s like to live an ordinary woman’s life. For that, she
has all the credentials she needs. Her
poems have been published recently in such venues as Aries, Cobalt, Fiction Week
and Eunoia. The above poems have been simultaneously submitted