Relying on the wind’s
Pain was how guilt felt before her husband
she was yearning for that red glove she’d
off the elevated walk then snagged below
on brambles nested
in deep, unbroken snow. Its fingers beckoned
He volunteered to retrieve the glove,
drove them to the ice
field then waded past windows where no
one ever walked,
waist deep in drift. She stayed broken
in the car, straight and still,
willing the seat to swallow the itinerant
ache. The glove sank
lower into the barberry. To reach in
meant cut wrists, a bloody
shorthand. His touch was already like
fire when it annealed her
but she wanted definitive pain herself, pain she could
and an Old Testament verb: smite. Steam rose from
faux chimneys the moment after the fall,
a maraschino cherry
depressed in meringue, cardinal on a
mattress. She never liked
that pair until they were separated.
Possessing one glove
rendered it useless; having dropped the
other imbued it with
potential. The lost one was all she could
Kerlikowske is a life-long Michigan
resident who lives in Kalamazoo and teaches at Kellogg
Community College in Battle Creek.
Her books include The Shape of Dad from March Street Press and most recently, Dominant Hand from Mayapple
Press. She recently won The Shaw Poetry Prize from Dunes Review. She is president of Friends of Poetry, Inc., an
organization dedicated to the enjoyment of poetry through murals on downtown buildings, a reading series, and the annual Poems
That Ate Our Ears contest for kids.
After He Fell
Near an outcropping—
the nearest falls’
access, wispy clouds write
words of warning
onto a clear, blue sky.
The air becomes cooler. Behind the trees,
a purple horizon drinks
the sun. A double rainbow
forms in fine, refreshing
Lost in the moment, I forget
that led me to such beauty. The point where
the stream fell from the
cliff becomes the place
from which the child will
fall. Affected bones
soon begin to pulsate the
child, who waits
in standard moonlight and
the cry from his faith-filled
rising only to a white-hot
Helen Losse is the author
of Better With Friends, published by Rank Stranger Press in 2009, and the Poetry Editor of The Dead Mule School
of Southern Literature. Her recent poetry publications and acceptances include The Wild Goose Poetry Review, Shape
of a Box, Iodine Poetry Review, and Hobble Creek Review. She has
two chapbooks, Gathering the Broken Pieces and Paper Snowflakes. Educated at Missouri Southern State and
Wake Forest Universities, she lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. She occasionally
writes book reviews for various markets, including the Winston-Salem Journal.
Apollo Goes to the Supermarket
Aisles too close, too many
pushing on me, brushing
past me, I wince each time.
This used to be special,
melding of flesh of mortal
and god now so casual and careless.
No one now remembers us, the
pay rent, pay utilities,
venture to the market, cross
asphalt seas of painted car-width
spaces, curbed and graveled
islands harboring a single sickly
tree, past the greeters,
stockers, and cashiers to buy
tampons for my consort,
a trashy girl of 17,
with bright red lips.
Lindsley lives in Grand Forks, North Dakota, where she studied English and
Classical Studies at University of North Dakota. She spends her free time writing
poetry and working on her first novel. Her blog Sidereal Musings: A Map of the Stars can be found at Sidereal Musing.
Wine undiluted dilutes worry (Ovid)
I can smell it now, a whiff of berries,
a hint of oak, soft tannins,
as I bring the tulip to my nose,
take the first sip and fall back
to the steamy hills of Andalucía
on a summer evening.
We are watching the sunset
over Arenas, making its
escape to another place.
No time for red letter bills,
news of interest rate rises,
the uncertainty of rent.
Instead, we will hold hands,
wander over scorched hills,
smell oranges on the wind
until we are satiated,
and insensible to any possible
worry in our broken reality.
lives and works in Irleland. He is the head of a national Non Governmental Organization working in the field of mental health.
John has been writing prose and poetry for about five years and has had a small amount of work published to date. He lives
with his lovely wife and two adorable children.
you are tickled
with giggle sticks.
Poked and pinched
by playful primate fingers
and lavished with kisses
from fur-covered lips.
bludgeoned half to death
by the monkeys in the Public Zoo…
you are taunted by patriarchal baboons
who despise you because you’re free.
And they simply cannot tolerate
a rebellious chimpanzee
who recites poetry.
tempted by a talisman
held in the hand
of a man
in an impeccable suit,
you are shocked to discover
that he’s just a gorilla
gorging himself on fruit.
The stench of his excrement
and you realize that the time has come
for fight or flight.
To hell with Darwin you decide…
this isn’t about
the strongest surviving.
This is about the weak
Colorado since 1999, Daniel Klawitter is an ordained deacon in the United Methodist Church
and a full-time community organizer who works on issues of economic development and workers’ rights. He has a BA in
Religion Studies from the College of Santa Fe
in New Mexico and a Master of Divinity degree from Iliff School of Theology in Denver. His poetry has appeared in Sacramental Life, Quietmountain:
New Feminist Essays, Blue Collar Review, The People’s Tribune, Indelible Companions (a chapbook supporting the
Friends of the Animal Center Foundation in Iowa), and Struggle:
A Journal of Proletarian Literature.
I’m just a big ol’
drag queen at heart.
I put on my face
and show up ―all sequins
helping people forget
that they’re running
away from love and death
I crack jokes as wicked
as the pink, four-inch, fuck-me
Miss Tiffany and Zondra Blue
the audience into believing
those long, slim legs, shimmering
inside support hose that
tighter than most babies
at their mother’s breasts
are the beautifully preserved
we all hope to find on top
of our lives.
I easily dance from topic
never letting on that my
just as much as those royal
I ease friends and strangers
through their worries
serving wine, solace, and
and every few years or so,
someone who I hope
will turn out to be my star
But when the harsh lights
flash on and he realizes
he’s drawn to a woman
who can offer
only an alternative beauty,
one that has been created
from harsh lava, yet soothes
and comforts with the softness
of a doe’s eyes,
he always turns away, afraid
he’ll be judged for
someone who is evocative
and tender, but too different
to be invited into a picket-fence
Black is writing a book that describes growing up in a religious cult in East Texas. She earns a living as a technical writer and works as an intuitive counselor,
while also blogging about life on www.9elephants.com. Ellen’s poetry has been published in Illya’s Honey, Fauquier Poetry Journal, and South Ash
Press. In 2005, Ellen won first prize in the Richardson Public Library’s annual poetry contest. Ellen writes poetry
because unexpected endings are a gift, as are her daughter, friends and cats.