Poetry
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The Mountains Comes Down the Mountains
Art by Andy Mister
By Patrick Whitfill
Maybe there’s some great end game
I’m missing out on with this last
century’s revision to the nursery rhymeabout the baby stashed in a tree, but I
always thought, with kids, it’s best to lie
only a little. Point to the window,say outside, because there’s nothing
about transparency they need to know
When my son noticed his shadowthe first time, we had a choice to make:
confess to what we don’t know, -
Ode to Edith Massey (Aunt Ida in John Waters’ Female Trouble)
Art by Bill Wolak
By Michael Montlack
Secretly we all want to strut like you, squeezed
into that laced-up leather catsuit, snaggle-toothed,
bleached hair teased into a cotton candy mess—
how easily you made Mae West pedestrian.Shouldn’t we all have an Aunt Ida to guide us
in that purr simultaneously girlish and granny:
I worry that you’ll work in an office … The world
of the heterosexual is a sick and boring life.Virgin Mary, Egg Lady,
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All My Polemics: An Outline
Art by the author
By Jenna Cardinale
The stretched weight of a heavy
bag questions our unbalanced commitment
to sustainability.An occasional table need not
display faded and framed photos
or a defined narrative.A hangover can hang
over a whole day and
we should discuss fairness.The funeral parlor passes
out promotional pens to encourage
brand loyalty.Just place your memories inside
this deluxe lacquered box.
There is a choice
of colors. -
Two From Daniel Felsenthal, “Out of Time/Admiration” and “The Beach is a Terminal You Leave When You Die”
Art by Andy Mister
by Daniel Felsenthal
Out of Time/Admiration
The toughest subject
to write on is time
Everyday I’m tryingI just run bone dry
Ba-dum where’s
That hi-hat?
A Hoover flag
Waves bare
In the pocket
Cue drumsFor the meantime—
That soft word
For nervous hours
Put to pasture
We learn methods
To enjoy these
Summer strolls as
Cretinous wild
Childs starry and
Scotch-drunk. -
“Sabbath” by Alfonsina Storni Translated from the Argentinian Spanish by Ulyses Razo
Art by Adelaide Snow
I rose early & walked barefoot
Through the halls. I stole to the gardens
And kissed the plants.
I soaked up the clean breath of the earth,
Thrown on the grass;
I bathed in the fountain that green achiras
Surround. Much later, wet with water,
I brushed my hair. I perfumed the hands
With scented serum of sampaguita. Squeamish,
Fine herons
Stole blonde shreds from my dress.
Then I put on my bugle suit, lighter
Than the very same gauze. -
Poetry Rubric for Acceptance
image curtesy of the National Gallery of Art
by Laine Derr
Laine Derr holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University and has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Work has appeared or is forthcoming from The Amistad, J Journal, Full Bleed + The Phillips Collection, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere.
