Issue 34

  • Issue 34,  Poetry

    Roots by Benjamin Balthaser

    You pull the turnip from the black,

    almost frozen ground and show me

    the roots, still unshrouding from

    their wet tangle of soil. They startle,

     

    these dense webs, they aren’t

    tentacles or long spindly arms — the roots

    feather forth, ghostly, like the white fans

    of fish at the bottom of oceans. Ever since

     

    your new job out on the oil fields,

  • Issue 34,  Nonfiction

    This is Not a Photo of My Mom By Lindsay Lee Wallace

    This is Not A Photo of My Mom

    By Lindsay Lee Wallace

     

    My mom Debbie would have been 67 today. I’m eating scrambled eggs in a green vinyl booth, listening to a little girl across the linoleum count down the minutes until she turns eight while sparkly letters sway on springs atop her festive headband and wish the entire diner a Happy Birthday. She encircles her trove of blueberry silver dollar pancakes with her arms, protecting them from the greedy hands of the other kids packed into her booth and declaring,

  • Issue 34,  Poetry

    Originally, All Brown Eyes by Emma DePanise

    Did my mother dream in phone

    conversations? Land lines, fingers twirling

    spiral cord connected to receiver.

    Did my grandmother dream in hand

    scrawled letters? Her cursive exuding formal

    grace they don’t teach anymore.

    Last night, I dreamt in videos, holding

    a phone, swiping through something

    like home movies. My younger sister

    and I in Iceland (never been), our heads

    on the floor of a cottage,

  • Issue 34,  Poetry

    I Supplicate to the Gauze Panther by Ryan Bollenbach

    Jealous of the marsh

    And what it could contain

    I asked to join the Gauze Panther in Their house

    I wanted to talk

    I wanted help

    To conduct a rite

    To stop the green multiplying inside me

    I did not love the marsh then

    Felt something more elemental

    As I secret-lapped the blood

    Dripping from the eyes of the bronze statue

    Risen from the marsh’s chest

    The metal-tongue sting awakened me from dreams

    With a strange liquid on my fingertips

    The similarity of my pink tongue to the panther’s

    To a brain peaking from skull split

    Kept me writing in the night

    The wind snaked into my tent

    Letting in the alcoholic dark

    I obscured exploring what abuts it

    I needed a subject to anchor my verbs

    To what could be seen

    The Gauze Panther took me in deeper that night

    Built extensions on the wall around us

    Put duct tape over every open window

    So we could spend all day watching

    Documentaries about the Anthropocene

    Inside I became a Trojan horse

    A catalyst for my green disease

    Primed to be taken tongue first

    By the next smoke-haunted explorer

    Hungry for a new life

    The panther and I sat together in our hut and fatted up

    One-hundred and sixty-seven finches joined us

    For the centuries of our gab session

    Their little bird lungs bubbled up like stars

    And in the passing time

    The big bang exploded around us

    We drank beers and watched through the window

    The bird bones dried in the sun

    With them we made a xylophone

    So we could speak with our feathered friends forever

    I was scared we would run out of yellow yarn to coat our mallets

    I was scared we would run out of sheet music to play at their wake

    I was scared the austerity program would take me over from inside

    But the panther’s pink tongue kept me present

    The sound of tongue lapping water from turbid pond

    Bounced off the hut’s wooden walls

    Changing in pitch with every shift around a corner

    I couldn’t place that sound inside of anything else

    I couldn’t remember why I left my family

    I dropped a clean plate with silver rims at dinner

    And the summer split the domestic bliss

    Into forty-million shards of enamel

    The silence that came over us

    Lasted the next forty-million years


    Ryan Bollenbach is a writer and musician living in Houston,

  • Issue 34,  Poetry

    Infinite Tigers by Lucian Mattison

    Two tigers lurk the garden, paw doorknobs open.

    I climb out a window amid the panic, fill the truck

    with a laptop, towel, armful of homegrown

    ghost peppers, picked amid the scramble.

    Tigers, all sinew and stripe, spill out the window

    after me, force me back inside the house.

    I latch locks, shut panes, but they keep finding new doors,

    more ways in to feed the loop of their hunt.

    Apparently, this is my ideal self. He, who risks

    being torn apart so that he may pick the fruits

    he was really looking forward to eating.

  • Issue 34,  Poetry

    A Panther on TV by Ryan Bollenbach

    The Gauze Panther watches

    My nose and tongue

    Taste-testing the humid air reflexively

    Suddenly I want meat

    I let the ants walk up my tongue

    Like I might eat them

    Bend my tongue muscles

    To make a sacred bench in memorial

    For the late golden toad they have eaten

    The ants call my bluff

    Sit on my bench

    Play chess

    Eat junk food

    Wander through the cavern of my nose

    To lay in the breeze of the ceiling fan

    I’ve mounted on my uvula

    To not shred them on my canines

    Is the struggle against instinct

    I didn’t realize I hungered for

    Until I passed

    Into the marsh’s sunroom

    And held back my every sneeze

    Later I saw a program playing silently

    In the screen of a TV

    Floating on a pond’s algae surface

    It was the Gauze Panther in youth

    Stalking through the rain

    They stopped to swipe a human baby

    From its crib by an open window

    A fresh baked pie sat steaming on the sill

    In that black and white animated dream

    The panther brought teeth to neck

    As silent as a final Earthly wish

    For bustling glaciers

    The panther stopped

    When that bare throat cooed ma ma

    As the panther debated

    The shadow of a cross

    Grew long overtop the babe’s brow

    If a child was swiped

    And there was no one there to see it

    Would that panther still a horror be?