By Suchi Pritchard
To My Living Wife
By Sarah Anderson
I did not know how to be dead at the beginning. Someone came to tell you right before our child was born. The airplane crashing, the force, they must have said.
No sign of the plane, only a glistening Chesapeake Bay. You are too empty to forgive me. I shout at the asphalt the wheels never hit.
My love, a crippled animal hides itself, heals itself alone. I see you have joined the fog, chestnut tree, November. The branches have what they need. To forgive me, the water, the accident.
My great uncle served on the USS Intrepid and was chief experimental test pilot at Chance Vought Aircraft in the late 1940’s. He was killed flying an XF7U-1
Find more of Sarah’s work on here site at www.thewordbarn.com
Bill
By C. Quintana
I named my inner critic Bill,
then he became my colleague
Sparkling grey eyes; salt-and-pepper hair—
Why are you here, Bill? Why are you hurting?
Across my desk in the ivory armchair—
Smile an inch from crying
I named my inner critic Bill
My inner critic Bill named I
I, Bill, inner named critic, my
Critic Bill named my inner I
The Riot
By Lily Nord
the Dudes pour lavender syrup you made by hand
into their tea with reckless abandon
say the Ito En you drink tastes like dirt
and I tap your leg- trade sushi rolls across the table laugh
at the top of their lungs pouring air into the tent
you and I, dead sober, are flying
four feet from the riot floating
behind our own heads
and I can see what you want in our mind’s eye:
ham and roast beef bitter cheese thick bread
but you watch us eat our rolls and curl up
under my shoulder
Discover more of Lily Nord’s work on her website at lilynord.com
TEN ALBUM COVERS
By Major Jackson
1.
The future is a nameless, blind piano man
fingering some groove out
of dead art from the Roman Empire.
2.
This summer, I did my best to forget
the moon, pale-faced traveler
of the skies, but remained a prisoner
to his dusty metaphors.
3.
When I can’t sleep,
I count all my likes.
4.
This morning I read Zagajewski
who recently vanished into a quantum
of light. I think I treasure most his clarity
which like my belief in art seems endless.
5.
On the kitchen counter, right now:
three sunflowers in a clear vase stretching
the day into a single filament of wonder.
6.
No one knows why sometimes
when reading a book, the face contorts
into a golden wildfire at night.
7.
What I am talking about is my funeral
where all the pallbearers are Yoruba priests passing
my body once again through a field of summer.
8.
The fate of the living is to abandon their accents,
our first instruments, then to return
home years later to retrieve them.
9.
Tack this up on your wall.
I want you to feel this energy,
cellphones smoldering
over a city.
10.
A fox is a suffering creature
fossilized in the fingers
of a piano player, exploding
into a feverish rift,
drowning God’s silence.
Two Valentines
mel, melit, mellifluous
By Lydia Kegler
A way of looking at body with hidden petals exposed, a way to become intimate with the perfection of anatomy. My work is a process of gilding the parts of body that have been historically marginalized. Certain places in the body are coated in shame, kept underground, wrapped in a fear of the nonbinary, the mystical, the queer, the feminine, the sexual. Where we observe preciousness in the biology of the blossom, we can too come to cherish the anatomy of the uterus, the clitoris, the labia, all of the glands, all of the organs. We can allow ourselves to be moved by the organs that persuade us to open and close. I intend to provoke a multifaceted understanding of anatomy. To have reverence for the human body, and how it is fitted together with incredible proportion. With gold leaf I paint the shrouded areas of pleasure. Glittering over all of the skin, blood and bone that has been colonized is returning to what is innate, what is due to us in having a body.
Two Poems By Sylvia Jones
Turning the Head of a Rake On Its Side
Robitussin & tourmaline. I licked Gwendolyn Brooks’ grave in a fever dream. I wasn’t afraid of
dying on the flight home. Dextromorphathan, I was better with words when I wasn’t with them.
Little is new—written small, on a mirror in Philadelphia next to the hole in the wall in the
shape of my running body. One ear then the other. Barely visible in the dust of the standing
crowd. So much is different but I am not better. In my literary dreams, Carl Phillips plays me—
playing myself. Norman Mailer gives me a handjob. During intermission Susan Sontag whispers
in my ear that she has to go to the bathroom. Perhaps this is blasphemous, but Phil Levine is
there too. I swear to God. In the bathroom with Susan together in perfect unison reciting Auden.
On a Line by Wojahn
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Put a sparrow in the poem and make sure you do not become this sparrow
Headline Poems
By Lior Torenberg
Headline Poem Form:
Line #1: A headline
Line #2: Something you remember
Line #3: Something you forget
Line #4: A realization
Headline Poem #1
Here's the best way to worry
The avocados are busy with rot &
my glasses have sat untouched for a month.
Disuse can be a totem, too
Headline Poem #2
Maybe we’re too horny
The spines of certain books,
the summer-plump of fresh oranges
Touching can feel like being touched
Headline Poem #3
What we pretend to know
can kill us. So can too much water.
You never drink water, I guess
you never felt the need
Headline Poem #4
How to stop giving bad advice:
fill the bird feeder with seeds & suet &
leave the coop half-finished all winter
A year can only hold one season
Headline Poem #5
Doctors are being told whom to save
I wanted a bright blue cast, a fracture
like the wing of the bird you nursed to health.
It seems that every bird I see is blue.
Wandering Land
by Josh Aaron Siegel
After Land by Agha Shahid Ali
There is no moon here since my father left across the sea. No light to guide me out of the valley when the others have shuffled away.
At night I push my ear to the wall so I can listen to the families that surround
me knees between my arms waiting for the sound.
Will the crowd hold their cries When
milk returns to this blessed land?
As my father says the lights of the old town streaking the whites of his eyes –When milk turns to yogurt there is no going back not even in dreams–
I go out past fields by stone roads where shepherds point to the sky as a greeting. I go to the hill that looks out over the water and trace my finger along the horizon line.
Each night I swear the line inches upwards. Maybe the water will take over the sky and surround the missing moon, surround the lights in my father’s eyes, surround me until we can’t see to see
At the moment the heart is drowned, Where does
the home live on, oh Promised Land?
–Not even in memory– says my father –can the home live on– because no matter where the bombs drop, no matter where fate points her wrinkled finger
We are all heading arms outstretched to a land where memory has no place but there’s no stopping the images from holding me in place,
the white capped men who sold candied dates, the cellphone sales woman who tried to move away but couldn’t
the girl who wore jeans
These wanderers pull my hands down connect my fingers to the pavement until I can no longer raise my arms
First Date
by Sophie Ewh
Memory
Another Communion
by Alejandro Villa Vasquez
I am in that stellar world again
surrounded by archangels, by sugar rivers.
My mother pink with pregnancy.
Where the world — oh, hug me — is
a tamarind as it never was.
Never not since my father was
Ha-mes, not Jaymez;
not since my mother’s manicure, little red mirrors
reflecting the American sun in the South.
Rose and robin’s egg melt like corn flour.
This ground sings.
Only the small strike of an accent
could speak our language as it was.
I spread to hug the belly of the mountainside.
The vision swift, impossible I admit.
Sleep fails and that world burst
loud as a belt on the leg.
The real, white sun rips me back
a child is being beaten —
I drink the vinegar of truth
like my First Communion,
while azure-pinched eyes watch:
what can you teach a body
by Raisa Tolchinsky
a bird caught in a stairway only knows how to fly upwards
even when the only way out is through the black iron bars
of the gate on the ground floor
still, we kept batting at it with a broom,
my brother and i, although
for many years i did not understand
there was nothing to do but wait.
the first day of track season
the coach scrubbed the starter pistol's
orange plastic parts: stirrup pin,
hammer,
plunger spring,
caliber
weighed each piece in his palm—
the gun is just as important as the running,
he said, the running is less important than knowing
when to run:
nose to asphalt on the track
my little ritual, imagining myself
fast-twitch wings.
when i heard the shot on howard st
when i saw the boy stumbling forward
from that blue square of sky i felt no fear
had already started running, had trained for this
without knowing it was what i had been training for,
no time to think
how this gun
had a bullet.
now i cannot stop thinking of how
i should have run towards him—
for months i have walked into red punches
thrown tires, whipped chains
preparing for 2 minutes
of stepping willingly
into the hardest part.
after my first fight, e. & i on the locker room floor.
i said, bring me back
from the dead.
bring me back.
& when the blue bruises appeared
on my back,
i could not trace their source.
what is the difference between hurt and hymn?
between praise and hunger?
how many days did we return home to find the bird
still in the stairwell,
mistaking windows for exits?
(sound of wings tapping glass)
the flying upwards is in their bones,
they will do it even if
it kills them
Play Therapy
by Meisha Rosenberg
“Sniper,” asserts my six-year-old son. His police survey the Lego family of the empty wooden doll house. Stand-ins for us mutely stub about: mother, father, son, and, playing the part of our German Shepherd mix, a Schleich replica. “Wait,” I say, “You can’t arrest someone if you don’t have a witness.” The therapist has told me to do this, to insert my comments, help my son learn other perspectives.
The wind outside pushes clouds, making their shadows fall on the doll house. “There must be some mistake,” I simper, not knowing any other voice for a mother, nor when I began filling and emptying cups, mornings all so early.
The police follow the two-inch Lego father, although there are no stairs for him, in his checkered red shirt, 3 o’clock shadow, no-knee legs that pop off. We follow, rising to the attic, where the officer scans us with his ultrasonic detector. “Drugs,” my officer-son concludes.
How does he already know?
How willingly we go into the Playmobil van, where I negotiate for our release. My talk of rights is not acknowledged by the spy, flamboyant in orange and white—the Lord of the disco with surveillance headgear—recruited to be taxi driver. After he drops us off, the police shoot him.
Our figures get home, feed the dog, and, collapsing on the floor, see there are no locks or latches and the wind and clouds pass through us.
On Half Moon Beach
by Joey Gould
I will love you again
dear me you stumbler
you swimmer you walking
past the boy calling your name hey
I will write of calling you will
right the need to be called of the need
of that need someone loved your love
but not you can I ask you
not to feel like you always have to ask
having circled yourself too long looking
down a pile of lanky sticks auguring
every time you butterflied a dead breast
looking in the fridge for out-of-codes
instead of lunch auguring sour
spoilage circling against your own
call song dear heart I don’t want you
to be sad anymore I wish
you’ll be happy you survived
listen: try to swallow
a compliment don’t take it
to the windshield unfortunate
cicada catch it keep those words
in a jar on the stand where you lay
your wallet bring it to the beach
take off your shirt go wading
with it introduce it to your sadness
so they can be friends
Ghost in the Machine
by Sherese Francis
Two Collages by Joan Hall
Parroquian Dream 25
Parroquian Dream 20
To see more of Joan’s work, visit her website here:
Earth Time
by Shuyi Yin
The gaze of the moan birds flare
through shadows of godless moonlight.
A tortoise carrying his black and yellow shell
hears the summon from the sea waves
and crawls slowly across the midsummer
grass with its one thousand years'
practice of asceticism.
A cliff awaits.
Drops of lavender oil
trickle down into the sea, as it stretches
of canvas, unbreathable.
Underneath lives a jellyfish called Lonesome Tom.
He has no eyes, no ears, mouth, heart or brain.
No bones, no spine. He never feels lonely.
Yesterday, he paved his floors with gold
and drank a bottle of vodka,
then went to a funeral of red sea urchins
like the one two hundred years ago—
Koi Hanako's.
She once had a room carpeted
with screaming light.
An owl picks up salt and stone from the seabed,
pecks a robin’s eggs, enters the bellies of the ducks,
digs deep into the marrow of the dragonfly.
Two Poems by Miranda Dennis
Too Many Boys in the Basement
One is enough, and anyway, they’re men.
Kudzu not lichen. Lichen not human.
Human not tulips. Tulips not loam.
To be only loam, to be ready at the touch
for one replication of the universe.
A lightbulb to resemble the daylight,
the daylight eager to erase the night,
night to settle, sure of itself, as a man
in the yard grabs dog by the collar,
drags dog to the ground. Dog of highest
heaven, I’d rather elevate the dog.
Fall Off the Bone
That’s what the roast is supposed to do, so it does.
Oh that I were as well-behaved.
*
If you pray to the bone will you learn
what the bone knows? Or will
you just be the letterhead
on naked paper? Will you
finetune your cuticles
to catch degree by degree
the shift in wind? How will
the spirit sing in your heavy
heart? How will the garden
untended make song
out of streelights?
How low does an alley go
before it meets the sea again?
What is the railroad’s rattle doing
to one loose bulb?
*
Your body is wrong. Your body is wrong as a machine full of lead. Your body doesn’t know
itself. Your knee turns out. Think of your body as a landmine. Think of your body as knotted
garden hose. How could God live in your palm? How, when clenching in your sleep? How, when
you slap an alarm to wake yourself up? If your body knew itself, you’d be up to feed the
chickens before dawn. You’d be someone’s pastoral landscape, wrought in oils so thick you can
taste it, taste the river shuddering through fertile soil. You’d be the sunset at a woman’s back as
she calls to her children, somewhere out of frame, who are skinny with summer, a Catherine
wheel of knees.