Poetry
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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.
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Insection
Art by Bill Wolak
by Carrie Penrod
The dawn hasn’t yet started to break,
the light not yet illuminating
the insects beneath my skin
I wish to keepHidden.
The man lying next to me,
arm over my shifting lungs,
sleeps as the dead lay
quiet in their coffinsforgotten.
I want to gnaw off my torso,
to escape his sleeping form––
and yet I want to remain
pinned, kept blissfullyaway.
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Making a Name
Art by Mark Hurtubise
by Caleb Braun
I want to get started! I want to cut down the cedar
and make for myself an everlasting name.
Gilgamesh, Tablet II: Enkidu was sitting, 159-160For weeks now, scattered thunder, flooded plains,
dry soil shepherding the water still, above.Puddles, make-shift lakes: zeros without a figure.
What would they call me if this shoddy house collapsed
and I undone by summer storms?A scribbler in a rented room.
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Mid-Wife Night Mutation
image curtesy of the MET Museum
By Larissa Larson
He told me to close up
the windows, so I do. Notwanting it to be this simple
always: preparation of night.You must understand having
the window openespecially in summer, soaked
in a stale smell of wheatsweat, grass blades moon
dewed, deep throatspulsate amphibiotic
ambience, sweet insect shellsshutter sleek symphonies –
this vital vibrationof life,
