My Mother’s Photograph
My mother kept her cup of gin nearby.
She had sex in the afternoon. Habit kept
order, swept the floors, ironed the pillowcases,
kept the light on and made her death little by little.
Continue reading My Mother’s Photograph by Cheryl Heineman
A WIND MACHINE FOR ORANGES UP NORTH
When asked about
the last orange grove in Orange County –
I am at a loss.
In the dark times, will there also be singing?
Yes. There will also be singing. About the dark times. – Bertolt Brecht
You’ve been thinking about the gold rim
of a priest’s robe, a glimpse of light caught
while turning the pages of a book
about ancient Egypt.
You’ve been traveling with a headlight
in the backyards and bedrooms
of a sunken city, somewhere
near the center of the Mediterranean sea.
chalk dust subsumes
our fingertips
into the board, a shared
motion of
our fingertips circling
the board
subsuming chalk
dust, no
master, no
artist,
only
medium
Chance Austin-Brecher is a San Diego based poet born in Redlands, California.
Caring Is Still Creepy
Is there a pill to make me not be this?
(I’m asking for a friend.) Continue reading Caring Is Still Creepy and Modest Mouse B-Side by C.J. Miles
Burial
We spread you off the point,
under the silent gaze of Cabrillo. Continue reading Burial and A Light That Always Goes Out by Branden Boynton
DARKNESS HOLDS
what we take
into it. Continue reading Darkness Holds, These Eternities, Loss by Tom Montag
In school we learnt the story of Samson
and I imagined him,
strange, blind hands pinning him to his chair
as locks of hair drifted down around his shoulders
like feathers,
like snow. Continue reading Queer by Olive Fitzgerald
at cliff’s edge, wedged
between storm and rock, I strain to hear
notes played out of order
tossed across airwaves—
in a different state, women
keen at weapons raised
against babies: they know smiles
save no one in streets made black
by body armor
where boys trade
insults for entry wounds—
when sticks crack stone heads
I hear thunder: why are hearts
grown to be broken? Women
lament as they snatch at grace notes—still
in or out of tune—still will we
sing—still we will rage.
Jude Marr is a PhD candidate with a concentration in creative writing at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. She is also poetry editor for the online journal r.kv.ry. Her poetry has appeared in The Cortland Review, Black Heart Magazine, and Cherry Tree among others, and her chapbook, Breakfast For the Birds, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in spring 2017. More information on Jude and her work can be found at http://www.judemarr.com
More Sacred than Candles a man’s tallow burns low and long
not at all like a movie, slower. Continue reading Bee Man by TJ Reynolds
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