THE MARS by raymond holmes
There, an escaped balloon
hanging stringless above them.
A light orange pinpoint
through the bonfire's smoldering out.
A woman underneath it all:
hair strand drawstring digit-woven.
Her mouth erased from the light
by another mouth.
There, an escaped balloon
hanging stringless above them.
A light orange pinpoint
through the bonfire's smoldering out.
A woman underneath it all:
hair strand drawstring digit-woven.
Her mouth erased from the light
by another mouth.
POEM ABOUT ABBY by raymond holmes
I held her tooth in the cuticled jaws
of my hand. It was longer than expected, slick
and vibratingly raw.
With a wash towel over her mouth –
it was reddening in thick
waves – I dropped the calcified sister-piece
into a short water glass and brought it
to the table. The space in her teeth
groaning behind the moistened cloth.
My father, my mother, dabbing the swollen pit
of her mouth in a sort of frantic slowness.
Their eyes unblinking, wide
under the many lights hanging bulbous
from the kitchen ceiling. Each pointing south,
each winking rapid until, someday, dim and flicker-eyed.
I held her tooth in the cuticled jaws
of my hand. It was longer than expected, slick
and vibratingly raw.
With a wash towel over her mouth –
it was reddening in thick
waves – I dropped the calcified sister-piece
into a short water glass and brought it
to the table. The space in her teeth
groaning behind the moistened cloth.
My father, my mother, dabbing the swollen pit
of her mouth in a sort of frantic slowness.
Their eyes unblinking, wide
under the many lights hanging bulbous
from the kitchen ceiling. Each pointing south,
each winking rapid until, someday, dim and flicker-eyed.
ROOT, SIRE, TIME-TRAVELER by nathan lipps
There is an engine in the field
humping over hill-lines and earth-borne bones.
Its baritone exhaust pipe glowing amber-gold
is tired, is deep in trow-grough, till and furrow.
When I could see through the dust, I saw
grandpa, raven-king, slumped and hallow.
Heathen! Listen to your cardiogram.
Turn over and harvest our harem.
We are young and mouthless.
Keep your fruit, we need your blood.
There is an engine in the field
humping over hill-lines and earth-borne bones.
Its baritone exhaust pipe glowing amber-gold
is tired, is deep in trow-grough, till and furrow.
When I could see through the dust, I saw
grandpa, raven-king, slumped and hallow.
Heathen! Listen to your cardiogram.
Turn over and harvest our harem.
We are young and mouthless.
Keep your fruit, we need your blood.
A CERTAIN TYPE OF ROCK by nathan lipps
A rock was situated in a simple field.
The rock was just a rock.
A boy walked out into the simple field.
The boy was just a boy, much like all other boys.
The boy leaned over and picked up the rock.
He, the boy, threw the rock.
There is no metaphor.
The rock was aloft for some distance.
The distance is in no way important.
Thud.
Thud was the sound the rock created when
it landed.
Revision no. 1
In a field. In an alfalfa field there was a stone. A granite stone. The stone had been leftover from some tall, slow moving glacier on its way from Canada. This was before border guards and passports existed. Soon a boy. Soon a young boy, his parents both born upon a pacific island, enters the field. His grandparents were incinerated amidst WWII. The boy was allergic to the tangles of the alfalfa; blame his parents. He bent over to say achoo and blew unto a stone. A granite stone. Such action caused him to notice the stone. The granite stone. Desiring always to become a baseball pitcher, to have women wrangle fingers through his mullet, he picked up the stone, with every intention of throwing it. The granite stone. As he wound up he thought of his grandparents and wondered how many times they must have had sex before they conceived mom & dad. The granite stone was in the air and then it was on the ground.
Revision no. 2
A boy threw a stone.
Revision no. 3
A boy threw the world
(that’s so very stupid ↑) authors note
Revision no. 4
A rock was situated in a simple field.
The rock was just a rock.
A boy walked out into the simple field.
The boy was just a boy, much like all other boys.
The boy leaned over and picked up the rock.
He, the boy, threw the rock.
There is no metaphor.
The rock was aloft for some distance.
The distance is in no way important.
Thud.
Thud was the sound the rock created when
it landed.
Revision no. 1
In a field. In an alfalfa field there was a stone. A granite stone. The stone had been leftover from some tall, slow moving glacier on its way from Canada. This was before border guards and passports existed. Soon a boy. Soon a young boy, his parents both born upon a pacific island, enters the field. His grandparents were incinerated amidst WWII. The boy was allergic to the tangles of the alfalfa; blame his parents. He bent over to say achoo and blew unto a stone. A granite stone. Such action caused him to notice the stone. The granite stone. Desiring always to become a baseball pitcher, to have women wrangle fingers through his mullet, he picked up the stone, with every intention of throwing it. The granite stone. As he wound up he thought of his grandparents and wondered how many times they must have had sex before they conceived mom & dad. The granite stone was in the air and then it was on the ground.
Revision no. 2
A boy threw a stone.
Revision no. 3
A boy threw the world
(that’s so very stupid ↑) authors note
Revision no. 4
THE DARK HALL OF MY BONES by denis robillard
I want to talk to you
Step into your bones for a minute
And have a look around.
The lakes, the trees, the vistas
Of change we’ve all wrought are in there.
When it comes to say the long good night
Who will blow out your candles in the dark
Hall of your bones?
The long march, the long
View where sighs are measured.
I want to get deep enough to graft
The love embedded in bone
Find a good core sample of memes
In your blood line and bring it back.
I want to walk in your stones
To crunch these same stones where you trod
And touch the rain that touched your face.
Find the family tree
That exists now in the spaces of my breathing.
I want to talk to you
Step into your bones for a minute
And have a look around.
The lakes, the trees, the vistas
Of change we’ve all wrought are in there.
When it comes to say the long good night
Who will blow out your candles in the dark
Hall of your bones?
The long march, the long
View where sighs are measured.
I want to get deep enough to graft
The love embedded in bone
Find a good core sample of memes
In your blood line and bring it back.
I want to walk in your stones
To crunch these same stones where you trod
And touch the rain that touched your face.
Find the family tree
That exists now in the spaces of my breathing.
PONYTAIL
SUNDRESS by matt smythe
I first saw her on a truckstop road trip
leaning her elbows on a counter nearby
thought about gas mileage geese at dusk
never returning home for warm meals
closet space at a premium I never saw her again
ponytail sundress and legs to here
after she drove off in a cloud of boyfriend
private college and godknowshowmany bodies in her trunk
freedom
she drove
away for good I lit a cigarette
blew a cloud toward the other half of the country
the world’s not stopping for a break or bite to eat
I paid with cash as always
I first saw her on a truckstop road trip
leaning her elbows on a counter nearby
thought about gas mileage geese at dusk
never returning home for warm meals
closet space at a premium I never saw her again
ponytail sundress and legs to here
after she drove off in a cloud of boyfriend
private college and godknowshowmany bodies in her trunk
freedom
she drove
away for good I lit a cigarette
blew a cloud toward the other half of the country
the world’s not stopping for a break or bite to eat
I paid with cash as always