Pain was how guilt felt before her husband figured out

she was yearning for that red glove she’d dropped, blown

off the elevated walk then snagged below on brambles nested

in deep, unbroken snow. Its fingers beckoned on impact.

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

body,  but she wanted definitive pain herself, pain she could

reveal,  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 think about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth 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.

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,

touching, meeting

melding of flesh of mortal

and god now so casual and careless.

No one now remembers us, the

old gods.  We work,

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Jessica 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.

Worry

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John Saunders 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.