Parcel

SWWIM Every Day
by Laura Romeyn

by Laura Romeyn

The jeep with its soft-top up

shreds past two small girls.

 

They are rushing the tallgrass

in matching violet nightgowns.

 

Wisconsin late summer.

Sun going down,

 

day like a bobbin

so warm. The air drags

 

low, circles its holdings

drifting there, then back

 

above. One of the girls,

the smaller one,

 

she kneels just in front

of the rhododendrons.

 

She has found something

in the green. A mid-section

 

undone, scratched open

to loosebelly softened

 

to the arbor of bone.

Grazed remains.

 

The lanes of the rib cage

carry their sidemeat,

 

fixed as the cold

of a silent and empty nave.

 

Put it in my hand

the older sister says,

 

and the younger one

reaches down and does.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Laura Romeyn is the author of Wild Conditions, winner of a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship (forthcoming spring 2019). A former Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University (2015-2017), her poems have appeared in AGNI, Black Warrior Review, Crazyhorse, Ninth Letter, and The Yale Review, among other journals. She lives and teaches in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Poem in Which I Forget Whether I Wanted Anything Else Back Then

SWWIM Every Day

by Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello

You said you wanted no more than this

thin black dog draped over our feet

propped heel to heel and thigh to thigh

 

and fingers curved around a white mug

in whose coffee lilts a sweeter version

of the milky way bridging dream and dawn

 

and questions about the prayer mountain

I climbed as the daughter of strangers

made of incense and stones and returning

 

with nothing but the memory

of finding footholds in the musky earth

of a mountainside

 

without you & before us or the dog

who now lifts a red-lidded eye

as vast as stars just starting to spin.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello is the author of Hour of the Ox (University of Pittsburgh, 2016), which won the 2015 AWP Donald Hall Prize for Poetry and the 2016 Florida Book Award bronze medal for poetry, and was a finalist for the 2017 Milt Kessler Award. She has received poetry fellowships from Kundiman, the Knight Foundation, and the American Literary Translators Association, among others. Her work has appeared in Best New Poets, Best Small Fictions, The New York Times, and more. She serves on the advisory board for the Sundress Academy for the Arts and is a program coordinator for Miami Book Fair. See www.marcicalabretta.com.

Self-Portrait with No Spare Parts

SWWIM Every Day
by Cynthia Atkins

by Cynthia Atkins

It has been steam cleaned

in 10 states. Slapped by a mother

spat on by a boss. This is how

everything is fine until it is not.

            It changed its mind

like umbrellas brought

on all the wrong days. 

It wore shoulder pads and burned

          a husband with a curling iron. 

It called 911. It did what it had to do. 

It held your bag of hygiene, oily

perfume, rotten teeth. Joy and pain

          live on the same street.  

It has an expiration date.  

It hung in the closet like a bad check.

It flagged all the pools of blood

        and the grief of mothers.

It was a dirge of old wars and vacant

parking lots. It was the place I sat alone

and cried all nightmare long.  

It is a junkyard clock

        with dog-chewed hands. 

It is God mouthing the anthem

I never learned. It gnawed

        at the wind shield, made of rain.  

It sat in a diner all night long, waiting

for the lord or the guy with a day job

        to take his knife home.  

This is the lake that lives within the skin,

that lives with an illness that dangles 

like a yo-yo on a string. And another body

       beget out of mine, long and wide

as the Rio Grande. The body just wants

something loyal and divine,

     a dog’s eyelids fluttering in sleep.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Cynthia Atkins is the author of Psyche’s Weathers and In The Event of Full Disclosure, and the forthcoming collection, Still-Life With God. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Apogee, BOMB, Cleaver Magazine, Cultural Weekly, Diode, Florida Review, Flock Lit, Green Mountains Review, Le Zaporogue, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, Rust + Moth, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Tampa Review, and Verse Daily, and have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of The Net. Atkins teaches creative writing at Blue Ridge Community College and lives on the Maury River of Rockbridge County VA with her family. See more at www.cynthiaatkins.com.

Choosing

SWWIM Every Day
by Feral Willcox

by Feral Willcox

In the place of cisterns

swaddled in cobra lilies

spawn of cloud seed heals

the moon of its infected swelling.

A heat dissipates to crystal, gaslit

in the aging night. You were

a slip of a boat set off in a slit

of wild waters, two down

no rudder, no oar. One love

travels in tides, in elliptic swirls

hot to cold, then back again.

The other, a faucet, a cup

a tinseled lake warming

in a metronome of sun.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ferral Willcox is a U.S. born poet and musician currently living in Pokhara, Nepal. Ferral’s work can be found in Per Contra, concis, Peacock Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere. Her poetry was featured in the Q-Street venue of the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, and she is a regular contributor to the Plath Poetry Project.

This Time of Night

SWWIM Every Day
by Michelle Bitting

by Michelle Bitting

We’re all in the same boat ready to float off the edge of the world. ~ The Band

When I should be asleep

but stay up anyway

step outside to sneak a smoke

behind the recycling bin

froth of soda cans

grass green bottles

spent water from France

a silo of silent witnesses

once effervescent

their colorful labels

torn and scraped now

glass shadows

cast to a rubber raft

under stars

the soft swish

of listing palms

that lean down

but can never reach far enough

lend a hand up

to new dignity.

We are not all in the same boat.

The lucky

find reinvention:

shelf sentinels

curiosities

emerald knickknacks

maybe something more

than holding someone’s luxuries.

Who knows.

Is there a purpose for everything

behind the human grind

beyond the shade

of blameless recycling?

Strangers in a truck

redeeming emptiness

sanctioned on the side

the traffic of coins

sputtered back

at disreputable living

a huddled shimmering

flatbeds

shuttled off in the dark

wet necks

liquid eyes

that glitter the night

shivering as their captors walk

fast from sight

pockets laden with gold

and don’t you just want to

turn them on their heads

shake them hard

til they break

til they shatter

like stars

spilling back

all that stolen brightness?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Michelle Bitting won the 2018 Mark Fischer Poetry Prize, and a fourth collection, Broken Kingdom, won the 2018 Catamaran Prize and was named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2018. She has poems published in The American Poetry Review, Narrative, The New York Times, The Los Angeles Review, Vinyl Poetry, Plume, Thrush, Raleigh Review, the Paris-American, AJP, Green Mountains Review, and others. Poems have appeared on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, have been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes, (including Pushcart 2018 and Best of the Net 2018) and recently, The Pablo Neruda, American Literary Review and Tupelo Quarterly poetry contests.

Not Language:

SWWIM Every Day
by Minadora Macheret

by Minadora Macheret

That which comes before

mama

as the ink of the eye.

A rustle in the lining

the fluid disrupts, amniotic

            the womb 
                        & mouth 

it cherishes.

            Now, lapushka

—your cellular prison

                        is motherly fear & hope.

The baby becomes 


viable,             24 weeks,

& slips             past the need for developed organs,


a continued cocoon,

a survival
                 wide as the palm of your hand.

 

The wound of arrival

is just enough

 

to signal desire, 

live—

            away from sustenance,

 

                                    the first sound through which you enter 

your own lungs 

Minadora Macheret is a Ph.D. student in Poetry and Teaching Fellow at the University of North Texas. She is a Poetry Editor for Devilfish Review. Her work has appeared in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Rogue Agent, Connotation Press, and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbook, Love Me, Anyway (Porkbelly Press, 2018). She likes to travel across the country with her beagle, Aki.

The Clocks in All the Novels Have Paused

SWWIM Every Day

by Corinna McClanahan Schroeder

From low chairs in the grass,

the heroines pass tiers

of cucumber sandwiches

and raspberry sponge cake.

The usual characters have convened—

grown daughters in muslin

and ribbons, heiresses yawning

diamonds. Teenage housekeepers

whose cupboard keys chime.

Governesses and quiet nieces

weathering tempest minds.

Clouds morph like a story overhead,

 

but the women pay no heed.

They are on break from the uses

of narrative. Crumbs spilling

from their lips, they don’t talk about

the next scene or when their weddings

will be. Not even the ever after,

happily though it’s promised

to be. For this hour, no one

blushes, no one’s made

to weep. The heroines just steep

in the pale sun, and no narrator

takes his stab at what they think.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Corinna McClanahan Schroeder is the author of the poetry collection Inked, winner of the 2014 X. J. Kennedy Poetry Prize. She has been awarded an AWP Intro Journals Award and a Walter E. Dakin Fellowship by the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and her poems appear or are forthcoming in such journals as Blackbird, Gulf Coast, Pleiades, and RHINO.

Nighttime Ischemic

SWWIM Every Day
by Jennifer Sutherland

by Jennifer Sutherland

Twilight, and I hear

her voice, familiar

kettle-hiss.

Quiet, girl,

she commands; then

my childhood rooms

are here, each

one dark as pitch,

bulls-eyed, red-

end cigaretted.

In the center

Mother sits,

seething.

Labyrinthine lady

fulcrum : rattle

preening. Tiny

importuning click/

click/click of gas

as she warms

the morning’s

coffee, aluminum

saucepan tap

and pour. Snap

of air trapped inside

her. Cricket clatter.

The house, its grid

of trenches, of gangrene

and defilade,

unacknowledged.

Rainbow-sheen halo

of puff and smoke,

her whisper-drab

devotional,

her pieta. Membrane

contracting, clutching

fibrous wall

and sinew.

Lung, spasming 

and black,

immobile,

wheeze and block.

I must

have frailed her,

asked too much

of her thin-stretched

décolletage,

engendered

a reaction.

When she died the

aperture swelled to many times

its anxious size.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jennifer Sutherland is a mostly former attorney and current MFA student at Hollins University, where she is also an assistant poetry editor for the Hollins Critic. Her work has appeared in the Northern Virginia Review and Anomaly, among other places, and her poem, “An Elegant Variation,” won Streetlight's 2018 Poetry Contest.

This Will Be Your Fortune Long After I Can Tell You

SWWIM Every Day
by Chloe N. Clark

by Chloe N. Clark

Today, someone I love told me

a joke. It wasn’t even that funny

but I laughed, let the sound fill my mouth

until it spilled out, made my lungs ache

with the push push of air

until even my bones hurt. Today,

one of my students told me to have

a lovely day, not even just a good

one, but a lovely one. I can imagine

that as a blessing, though the air was

cold and the sky was gray and I’ve been

holding a sense of dread under my skin

for days, no weeks, no I’ve been holding

it there for years. Today, I worked out

until my muscles tingled under my skin,

today I laid on the floor like this,

closed my eyes, and it was the closest feeling

to flying I might ever get. Today, I still

said “might” about impossible things. Today,

a friend and I made plans for the future and

the world felt like something I could hold

in the palm of my hand. Today, no one I loved

died. Today, I woke up breathing. Today,

I thought how much I wanted to give you

this day. Today, if I could, I’d push it

into your hands, say, here, here, here,

I’m here, you’re here. Today is going

to be good.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chloe N. Clark holds an MFA in Creative Writing & environment. Her work appears in Bombay Gin, Drunken Boat, Glass, Hobart, and more. She is co-EIC of Cotton Xenomorph and her chapbook, The Science of Unvanishing Objects, is out from Finishing Line Press. Find her on Twitter @PintsNCupcakes.

Ghazal for a Bottle of Shalimar, 1956

SWWIM Every Day
by Maryann Corbett

by Maryann Corbett

The clear amber scent in its bottle. Its glint from the top of the vanity:

cut-crystal flutes with a frosted-glass stopper, catching the sun, on her vanity.

 

The glamorous dreams of our mother, unspoken to curious children,

were sharp as the quarter-moon curve of that bottle enshrined on the vanity.

 

What were they guarding, what secrets? And how would a child understand them?

And what was I thinking, small magpie lured on by the glitter of vanity?

 

Wreckage of beauties: the spill. The wet, the gray film on the rosewood.

I was the firstborn, the first to drive thorns through the heart of her vanity.

 

Painfully, mothers forgive. (On the mountain with seven stories,

how long will the granite of penitence weigh on the spine of my vanity?)

 

(And what do my children remember? what hauntings by anger and tears

does my memory hide from itself in the metal-bound chest of my vanity?)

 

Sixty years on, and the stain-mottled dresser now broods in my bedroom,

breathing regret, and my name, and the words of the Preacher: Vanity!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Maryann Corbett is the author of four books of poetry. Her work has won the Richard Wilbur Book Award and the Willis Barnstone Translation Prize and has been published in venues like Southwest Review, Barrow Street, Rattle, River Styx, Atlanta Review, The Evansville Review, Measure, Literary Imagination, The Dark Horse, Subtropics, Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, American Life in Poetry, The Poetry Foundation, and The Writer's Almanac, and in an assortment of anthologies including The Best American Poetry 2018.

Those Horses Inside Me

SWWIM Every Day
by Alix Wood

by Alix Wood

Four weeks after I lost him, my doctor asks,

Has anyone ever told you that you have a heart murmur?

I shake my head, swallow dust, and stare at a poster of bones.

Well, you do. But don’t worry about it.

 

How do I tell someone I have never not worried about anything in my entire life?

Heart, you are my hardest-working organ.

Inside me, a valve pulses open-close-open-close, mumbles beneath its breath,

clamors to be heard like the pounding of hooves against packed earth.

Five liters of blood pump through from toe to brain,

each cell a messenger horse carrying a blank letter.

Four weeks ago at the cape, he held me at water’s edge.

He told me if this is to end, let it end in a sunset.

The moment was so littoral I wanted to laugh, or scream, or both,

and a side stitch panged at me like a boxer delivering a sucker punch to my waist,

drawing the air from my lungs into polluted atmosphere.

Heart, you are a closed fist, but my palms are always open.

A pig’s aorta keeps my grandmother’s eighty-five-year-old body alive,

its length stretching from left ventricle to abdomen like a bendable straw.

Just once, I think I see my future.

Just once, I want to be clean.

Inside me, a quiet sound pounds soft as a horse’s nose.

Doctor, does the heart murmur when it’s made a mistake?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Alix Wood was raised by two mothers on Anna Maria Island, Florida. At the University of Vermont, she was the editor-in-chief of Vantage Point, the school's literary and art magazine. This is her first professional publication. Alix currently lives in Vermont and works at a tea house.

Field Work

SWWIM Every Day
by Katrinka Moore

by Katrinka Moore

Her mind a passerine

claws firm on the bough

her body a flowering

tree     She knows

what’s blooming

A luminist

she sees light    

fall into woods

waft over

the undergrowth

A numinist    

she reflects

the weave of seen

and unseen

What’s in her fieldbox

A spectrum     spirit tin

spyglass     spirals

a mud-splattered

map of the air

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Katrinka Moore’s latest book is Wayfarers (Pelekinesis, 2018). Her previous books are Numa, Thief, and This is Not a Story, winner of the New Women’s Voices prize. Recent work appears in Otoliths, Woven Tale, First Literary Review-East, and Leaping Clear, and in the anthology, Weaving the Terrain: 100-Word Southwestern Poems (Dos Gatos Press). She lives in New York City and Manor Kill, NY. For more, please see https://katrinkamoore.weebly.com.

Primary Source

SWWIM Every Day
by Sara Burnett

by Sara Burnett

A teacher of mine once said every writer

has only four or five subjects.

There’s happiness in repetition

if you don’t hear the seconds ticking.

What’s worse? Dedicating yourself

to failure or denying it again and again?

Pacher’s pupil, a Renaissance carver, perfected

the pine folds of Saint Margaret’s robes

using a large axe, then 

several smaller ones, then

sanded and painted her in fine detail.

Did he ever think where did the time go?

She stands at the back of a church in Tyrol,

a dragon writhing under her feet.

What do you live for? The quiet

before sunrise or the moments after.

The baby coos in her pram.

I’ve always wanted to use the word pram

at least once in a poem.

Now that I’m a mother,

I’ve a better understanding of terror

and the miraculous.

Who will she be when she’s grown?

Do I have time to shower?

If, as a famous writer decreed, it takes 10,000 hours

to achieve mastery,

I’ve perfected rocking my hips from side-to-side,

changing a diaper in dim dawn light.

My baby practices sitting up even in her sleep—

her head bobs like a buoy, her eyelids shudder.

My teacher said sometimes your first line

is your last line.

What’s more? The moment she walks

or the moment she falls down.

Looking again at the photo, the dragon

lies curled at Margaret’s feet.

I’m holding an image of an image

someone else carved in my hands.

She loves it when I sprinkle my fingers

down on her like rain.

I’m holding the rain in my hands

and in my hands, the rain holds her.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Sara Burnett is the author of the chapbook, Mother Tongue (Dancing Girl Press 2018). Her poems have appeared in Barrow Street, Poet Lore, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. She holds a MFA in poetry from the University of Maryland and a MA in English Literature from the University of Vermont. She is a recipient of Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference scholarships to support her writing. She lives in MD with her family.

Recipe for a Childhood

SWWIM Every Day
by Amy Katzel

by Amy Katzel

after Natalie Scenters-Zapico

 

1.     When the sun pulls your shade low, when you can’t tell if it’s your belly or throat that hungers—

2.     Find your largest pot.

3.     Remember, as a girl, you’d practice guitar and the dog would cry, except your parents said he was singing, tea kettle whistle perched at the edge of the living room steps:

4.     Fill it with sink water, like rocks filling a pale.

5.     Your room, carpet pulsing stereo, liner notes at your thumbs; lyrics like thick soup, but the chords’ harmonies,

6.     Those seemed inside you,

7.     Girl body running on electric wire—

8.     Hold the dry noodles, thick as hay, as dynamite, hold the stack in both hands

a.     and break. The break is never clean and that’s

b.     the best part, the little twigs that straggle along the burners,

c.     hiss of the water,

d.     steam on your face.

9.     CD cases clacking in your hands, the walls changing shape.

10.  No basil, no onion at your careful hand at the cutting board,

11.  Instead, string a single, hot tendril high in the air and down into your mouth like a sword swallower

12.  —No chopping’s cadence, whole things becoming smaller things,

13.  No, your mother’s recipe not so much a recipe as a prayer:

14.  How she used to leave the strands to bunch together in the strainer, twisted eucalyptus from the roots, or how she’d pull back

15.  Your hair in her hands when you leaned to blow out birthday candles, certain you were capable of catching fire.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Amy Katzel is a marketing and communications professional and writer living in Miami. She received an MFA in poetry from the University of Maryland.

Bell on Knee

SWWIM Every Day
by Kelly R. Samuels

by Kelly R. Samuels

There is the man who wears a bell

on his knee in that novel. It serves as a telling,

like the buoy near the north shore that rang out

the first night here—a warning to scatter. To give

berth, wide and slow and steady.

He walks in the garden, this man, this character,

this symbol, but there are no gardens here. Here,

instead, there is the unkempt lilac and drying pine

and the wild thimbleberry.

And the lake lunging, noisy and troubling, and then

still, the waves no more than shaken foil.

The small purple wildflower clinging to the stone

where I saw the butterflies—along the south shore, along

the point with the name of a girl you once loved.

 

The stone, reddish and swirled, bared

and visible below the water. With the hollowed out

bowls for smaller stones of grey.

 

The stream coppery and bloodied at its mouth.

 

Bells for me—markers

of something, these. Not a warning to disperse,

as with him.

Nor a god or faith, I don’t know—

something

of confirmation and bliss.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly R. Samuels is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various journals including The Carolina Quarterly, Sweet Tree Review, Salt Hill, Permafrost, and RHINO. She lives in the upper Midwest and has two chapbooks being released in early 2019.

The Artist at the Colony Asks Me If I’m Famous

SWWIM Every Day
by Marjorie Maddox

by Marjorie Maddox

if I’m someone she should know,

pay attention to, bother having coffee with,

talk with about the father who raped her at twelve,

about my father, about the slant of rainy light after

you’re weeping for half a life and then some and

when/if you leave the toilet paper unwinding from the top

or bottom, and what our papas said the two days after,

and avocados and kumquats, and the strange

geometric shapes that cascade into our dreams

five days each year before the equinox, and if

I’m well known enough for her to pry open my palm

and slice my lifelines with an X-Acto knife—would I

do that for her?—and have I won a Pulitzer yet, and

what color were the eyes of God when I looked straight

at Him for three minutes without blinking once, Ok

maybe once, and may she have that last bottle of wine,

could she borrow a glass, and how much does The New Yorker

pay, do I think they would consider her work, she’s started

writing, too, have I slept with anyone there, and does the mold

in my studio make my eyes itch in the morning—or evening,

she’s heard both—because she really wants to know about the time

the London editor who knew the New York editor who knew me

from someone at the colony or raved about my work on Eskimos or

transplants or something like that and later sat on a committee

that judged that really important prize—she can’t remember

which one right now because, thanks again, she had a bit too much

of my Merlot, but am I that writer, the one she’s heard

something about, the one she should know?

No, I say, no, though I am someone

writing, trying to write, someone.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Sage Graduate Fellow of Cornell University (MFA) and Professor of English at Lock Haven University, Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry—including Wives' Tales; True, False, None of the Above (Poiema Poetry Series); Local News from Someplace Else (Wipf & Stock); Weeknights at the Cathedral (WordTech Editions); Transplant, Transport, Transubstantiation (Yellowglen Prize); and Perpendicular As I (Sandstone Book Award—as well as the short story collection What She Was Saying (Fomite Press), and over 550 poems, stories, and essays in journals and anthologies. Marjorie is the co-editor of Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (PSU Press 2005), assistant editor of Presence, and author of four children's books. For more, please see www.marjoriemaddox.com.

When wispy clouds drift through sparsely wooded mountains

SWWIM Every Day
by Martha Silano

by Martha Silano

When the contours of mountains resemble coliseums.

Cathedrality of mountains.

Relief of roadlessness.

That there are lakes impossible to reach by car.

That from this window just behind the wing, 20F,

there are no signs of life.

Once I packed a bag with cheddar goldfish.

Once my son threw up before we even boarded the plane.

Cracks and fissures, cuneiform of rock. Backbones and capillaries,

the snaking green edged with bluffs (long-ago ocean?).

He will turn eighteen next week.

Brain-like contours—cerebral cortex or cerebellum?

Contours thin like the veins of leaves, fronds of a sword fern, feet of a coot.

Time passed like a silent rail in the reeds.

The folds very Egyptian, mummies reposed in their tombs.

Like an alligator’s enormous tail, though lacking snout and teeth.

Once I sang La crocodile il est malade, il est malade a Singapour.

All those years, I thought I was singing sangue a peu—a little blood.

Clouds less cumulus, more cumulonimbus.

Towns scattered with houses like paint chips.

From the ground he would wave to the passengers in the sky: Bye-bye, babies!

Claw-like hills, afghan of cloud not like fresh snow but snow a few days old,

the occasional indentation where a foot or tire met asphalt.

The crocodile is sick. A little mercy, a little blood.

Between fluffy swirls, black holes.

When the binky and the sippy cup.

When the diaper bag and the teething ring.

Cottoned from above

like first tracks on Lynx Pass,

a pristine path through aspen, lodgepole, spruce.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Martha Silano is the author of five poetry books, including Gravity Assist (forthcoming 2019), The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and Reckless Lovely, all from Saturnalia Books. She co-authored, with Kelli Russell Agodon, The Daily Poet: Day-By-Day Prompts For Your Writing Practice. Her poems have appeared in Paris Review, Poetry, New England Review, and American Poetry Review, among others. Martha teaches at Bellevue College, near her home in Seattle, WA.

Fillers

SWWIM Every Day
by Majda Gama

by Majda Gama

“Strange Stars Pulsate According to the Golden Ratio”

The BBC headline & a snapshot of Lindsay Lohan

carrying a copy of the holy Quran run parallel on a news site.

Perhaps raw, almond-milk chai was too ordinary for her

so she turned to the book of a more exotic people.

Can America ever forgive her for reaching beyond yoga & rehab

into the terrain of the enemy? I mean, Jane Fonda is still

paying the price for looking eastward.

I like my life dry, like the lips an aesthetician told me she could fix,

use sugar-based fillers to fill in lines from smoking,

fill up the rosy skin browning with middle age.

Sure, the corners are downturned, someone needs to walk

around looking angry & I’m angry that the plump face of youth

is now the face I’m expected to buy back, just as my cheekbones

are emerging. FFS, Lindsey’s now allowed her lips to deflate.

After thinking all this through, I see The Archdruid Report

proclaim we are at peak meaninglessness.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Majda Gama is a Saudi-American poet based Washington, DC where she has roots as a Punk DJ and an activist. She has read her poetry at the PEN World Voices Festival of International Literature and Split This Rock 2018. Majda is a Best of the Net nominee. Her poems have appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, The Fairy Tale Review, The Normal School, Slice, and The South Dakota Review. Majda is a poetry editor for Tinderbox.

Skipping Rocks Across Cazenovia Creek

SWWIM Every Day
by Lisa Wiley

by Lisa Wiley

I keep rolling you over in my mind

like a smooth rock tumbled

for centuries along the creek bed.

Picking it up, I admire the polished curves,

wonder where we begin and end.

This pebble, only a few ounces,

weighs heavy on the heart.

Shall I pocket it like an albatross waiting

for that one halcyon summer day you visit?

Or toss it back into fresh water,

see you skip across to the other side?

Sometimes, there aren’t enough fucking rocks.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Lisa Wiley teaches English at SUNY Erie Community College in Buffalo, NY. She is the author of three chapbooks: Big Apple Rain (The Writer’s Den, 2018), My Daughter Wears Her Evil Eye to School (The Writer’s Den, 2015), and Chamber Music (Finishing Line Press, 2013). Her poetry has appeared in Earth’s Daughters, The Healing Muse, Medical Journal of Australia, Mom Egg Review and Third Wednesday, among others. She has read her work throughout New York state.

Disrobing God

SWWIM Every Day
by Jane Ellen Glasser

by Jane Ellen Glasser

Shave off that shaggy beard.

You are no one’s grandfather.

Remove the illusion

of white skin.

Admit the lie

that hides

beneath white robes.

Tell the truth.

You did not beget a son.

No one died for our sins.

No one prewrites the script

for our lives.

O we have created you,

fashioned from ego and hubris,

in our own image,

surrounded you with angels

waiting for us

through pearly gates.

Out of the wet tissues

of our need, out of the

sinking clay of our fears,

we whisper prayers in the ear

of a deaf universe.

I am not so foolish.

Redo your curriculum vitae.

Make up a different story.

One I can believe in.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Jane Ellen Glasser’s poetry has appeared in journals, such as Hudson Review, Southern Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and Georgia Review. In the past, she reviewed poetry books for the Virginian-Pilot, edited poetry for the Ghent Quarterly and Lady Jane’s Miscellany, and co-founded the nonprofit arts organization and journal New Virginia Review. A first collection of her poetry, Naming the Darkness, with an introduction by W. D. Snodgrass, was issued by Road Publishers in 1991. She won the Tampa Review Prize for Poetry 2005 for Light Persists, and The Long Life won the Poetica Publishing Company Chapbook Contest in 2011. The Red Coat (2013), Cracks (2015), and In the Shadow of Paradise (2017), are all available from FutureCycle Press. Selected Works: 1980-2019 is due out in 2019. See more at www.janeellenglasser.com.

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