Charles Southerland – After Midnight

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After Midnight
by Charles Southerland

When evening comes, his alter ego blooms.
He stews about the evil that surrounds
the neighborhood, the soulless hatch from wombs
attuned to such debauchery. He pounds
both fists against his head to tenderize
his mind. Why does it have to be this way?
No cape can cover all of it. He flies
against the night and lands amidst the fray.
When morning comes, there is some pain, a cut,
contusions, a bullet wound, bloody sheets,
the ever present migraine headache, but
no memory of the night just passed, his feats.
There’s flab, gray hair— he’s become a softie.
Lois asks, “Clark, want a cup of coffee?”

Charles Southerland – The New Verona Commentary

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The New Verona Commentary
by Charles Southerland

Some Italian boy threw his flashlight through
a window, breaking the leaded frescoed
pane. The debutante took it as her cue
to fall in love, her penthouse life co-ed
forever, which is the long way to say
they were two horny kids ready to screw-
up after reading “Fifty Shades of Grey.”
She found the book in her parents room; who
could blame them much? More? The dog-eared pages
were underlined, (and sticky too.) She missed
the closet full of toys, the iron cages,
videos in alphabetic rows, lists….
It understates the thought: forbidden love—
‘neath Mother’s pillow hides a rubber glove.

Janelle Ward – First Meeting

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First meeting
by Janelle Ward

First meeting. 9.08 A.M. Just outside of Schiphol station. Two in a sea of sweaty commuters, fighting for a seat. Hardly the place for the gods of lust to rendezvous.

I enter the carriage without looking around. My eyes are on my regular seat. If my seat is occupied I will not enjoy my time here. I must sit in that particular seat to allow the unexpected to happen. I sit. The world aligns.

That’s when I first see you. You are looking back at me. I give you a half smile and hear the music begin to play. Yes, the music can play before my first sip of coffee. For me, the music can always play. Usually it is silent, but the promise of melodious anticipation is always just one stranger away. The music has a steady beat. Tick tick tick tick. Think Angel by Massive Attack. Think anything by Massive Attack.

Blood flow intensifies. I may or may not be blushing. I may or may not feel light headed. I remove my laptop from its snug carrier and fire it up. You are staring at your coffee. You are wearing shiny black shoes. Dark washed jeans. A crisp blazer. Glasses, dark hair. A shitty mobile phone you keep fiddling with. I can forgive bad taste in technology, at least for now. For my purposes it won’t matter.

We smile again. I am convinced you are a foreigner. You have that cautious way about you. Neither of us fit in. I wonder if you’re going on a job interview with your briefcase perched next to you like an unfamiliar accessory. You might be an academic, with those dark washed jeans and that crappy phone. Academics rarely try pulling off a suit. You look about my age. It’s always interesting to observe someone who has made it to the mid thirties and still wears dark washed jeans to a job interview. You’re probably an academic. That means you enjoy deep contemplative thinking. I haven’t fucked enough academics to know whether you also enjoy contemplating the desires of the flesh.

We’re almost to Amsterdam. I won’t ask, because I’m not ready to be that guilty. But if you came over right now and propositioned me I would say yes. I would simply gather my things and follow you off the train. Don’t believe me? Try it. I dare you. There you are smiling again, and getting up, and digging awkwardly in your briefcase, and extracting your OV Chipkaart from your pocket. There you are smiling again as you gather your things and exit the carriage.

The music is still playing.

Dianne Kellogg – Grandpa, the carpenter

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Grandpa, the carpenter
by Dianne Kellogg

Darn o fy nghalon…dere yma*
“Little piece of my heart…come here.”
Two hearts beat in rhythm,
the infant stops crying—
rests on the baritone’s chest—
chants of the Psalms,
the manifest Song of Solomon,
feels the womb has expanded its nest into the world,
cradled in the hands of the carpenter.

Cariad, dere yma
“Beloved, come here.”
Hold fast to the gnarled hands of
the carpenter—
make dancing, flying, patter-feet
then swoosh alight on broad shoulders
for a ride.
Don’t look down, the drop is far,
the hill is steep,
rhythmic steps; gravel, pavement, gravel, pavement.

Cariad, dere yma
Hold fast to the resting hands of
the carpenter.
Feel the bristle hairs on the back of
fidgeting fingers brush the tears
from a supple cheek
in rhythm with small fingers on closing eyes.

Hold fast to the gentle hand of the Carpenter.
Listen to the voice of the Carpenter.
Darn o fy nghalon…. dere yma

*Italicized Welsh verses translated in the line below.

Ken Saffran – Been raining here

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Been raining here
by Ken Saffran

cold at night
I pull the past around me

last summer
on hot nights without covers
we moved
together through a tangle of legs
and arms trying
to hold on

last week
when we met
again
there was something
almost
something not there
between us
that
held us down
and held us up

on my way home
two strong electric pulses
pushing
pushing windshield wipers
through a steady rain
the traffic
light changes

Meg Tuite – Is there a chill in here or is mom home?

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Is there a chill in here or is mom home?
by Meg Tuite

I kept hearing about global warming. The problem with that theory was that the hotter it got outside the more glacial it became inside. Whenever Mom opened the door mounds of ice covered my sisters, the dog, and all the plastic furniture in the living room steamed out its breath when we sat on it.

Mom complained of the heat wave as she tugged off her heels. She headed for the freezer, ice cubes tinkled into a glass and out came the bourbon while her hazy blonde wig turned into an ice sculpture. Antarctica blasted out of her mouth.

“What are you looking at?” she’d ask one of us as she pulled out a Kool, lit up, throwing her head back as frozen rings drifted up into the stifled atmosphere.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she’d yell. “Get your asses out here. I want to see some rosy cheeks.”

The coated furniture blustered, farted as all four of us lined up on the couch, trembling together to stay warm.

“You know the drill. Don’t tell me I wasted my eggs for nothing.”

I was the oldest, so they all stared at me. Mom sucked down her frosty drink and asked someone to refresh it every few minutes. “Don’t forget the ice,” she’d yell. Mom didn’t want to hear that we made friends or joined the girl scouts or got on some baseball team.

“I went to Marshall Fields today,” I said.

“And?” she countered.

We all clutched our bags in our laps.

“Well, lay it out on the table. Last week there was nothing. You want to eat? You’ve got to produce. This is home schooling, people. Learning how to make it in this shit economy.” Smoke slithered around words.

“Got some necklaces, rings, and a whole rack of bracelets,” I said.

Mom leaned forward and looked the pile over, pushing each jewel with her finger while her face cracked.

She leaned back in her chair, grimaced and lit up another Kool. “You kidding me? A rack of beads and cubic zirconium? What are you? Twelve, thirteen? You’re hitting the age when hundreds of eyes watch you from every two-way mirror. A few more years and they’ll put you behind bars for this? Mother’s taught you better than that.”

“Next?”

The kid’s rifled through their bags and lined up the goods. Jenny was in charge of breaking into houses around the neighborhood. She usually came home with electronics, cash and real jewelry. Mom’s favourite, small enough to get in anywhere, fearless or stupid as a mouse.

Betsy was ten. She rode subways all day, memorized her script about lack of food and Mom out of work, neither that strayed from the truth. She came home with a hefty stash of cash she laid on the table.

“How much?” Mom asked.

Betsy was good at math. “Four hundred twenty eight dollars and eighty-two cents.”

“Nice. You’ll be getting dessert tonight. Now pour Mom another drink. Monica?” The cubes danced as Mom swirled her empty glass.

Monica was eight. The youngest always had the toughest task. Mom dropped her off in one of the rich suburbs and had her go door-to-door hawking cheap jewelry Mom couldn’t sell to her contacts. “Now remember, kid,” she’d say. “Innocence and a few dimples will get you everything. I didn’t spend the whole morning whipping up those Shirley Temple curls for nothing.”

Monica pulled out a wad of cash. She wasn’t as good at math as her sister.

Mom licked her finger and counted out the bundle. “Not bad, baby, not bad. Your father would be proud. He was one cold ass turkey without the ass,” she said and laughed. We stared.

Stalactites hung like earrings from the sides of Mom’s face. She shook her head at me, slush trailing down my cheeks. “Let’s go,” she flurried to the others. I didn’t pretend to follow the group. “Hey,” she slurred at me. Eyebrows raised and her cigarette voice erupted hailstones. “Good news is one day you’ll be buying Mom her bourbon and cigarettes. Now go practice picking some locks.”

I put on the smoldering face, stomped up to my room and slammed the door. But Momma was one sloshed fool for believing her posse was anything but piercing. There was always one kid shut out. So we’d taken some of the cash years ago and had a mini-fridge delivered. Stocked it with sandwiches and desserts stashed in the back of our closet. Also procured a case of brandy sent via eBay. You could get anything if you had the cash and a credit card. I’d eat the best meal of the night and the sisters knew it. Though we always made sure to have ice cream with brandy together with all the lights off after Mom was passed out and the freeze started to melt.

Megan Johnstone – Uncle Bert

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Uncle Bert
by Megan Johnstone

was invisible. He was never
there in photograph albums –
family reunions found him absent.
Sunday dinners had an empty
place setting. His laundry never
appeared on the weekly wash line –
empty sweater and slippers by the fire.
The opening line at any gathering –
Has anyone seen Uncle Bert?

Meryl Stratford – What Her Mirror Saw

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What Her Mirror Saw
by Meryl Stratford

She begged for her life.
She wished for a beautiful child.
She disguised herself as an old woman.
She cooked, made beds, washed clothes.
She knocked at the door: pretty things for sale.
She said her prayers before she slept.
She lay in a glass casket for all to see.
Her mirror never lied.
From her window, she watched the falling snow.
She ignored the warning, opened the door.
She opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around.
Her mirror said she was not beautiful enough.
Her blood dripped, red, on the white snow.
She danced in the red hot shoes.
She questioned her mirror.
She fell down as if dead.
She died giving birth to a daughter.
She combed her ebony hair.
She uttered a curse.
Her mirror said she was beautiful.
She was dead; she remained dead.
She wanted to kill the beautiful child.
She married the prince.
She created a poison apple, a beautiful poison apple.
She lived in the king’s castle.
She lived in a cottage.
She laughed.
She ate the poisonous apple.
She went to the wedding.
She kept everything neat and clean.
She ran down a dark path into the forest.

Pat Seman – Reverie

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Reverie
by Pat Seman

Scattered pillars
a head
resting against
an empty pedestal

stone centaur gallops into the night

a tomb
its beaten earth
sloping
to an empty grave

skin of water mirrors

my stone face

long neck
alabaster smooth

eyes
two hollows.

Sarah Kinebanian – Chiemsee

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Chiemsee
by Sarah Kinebanian

He drove back west from Salzburg on the motorway
and unexpectedly encountered himself
fifty years younger
going the other way.
This was the Chiemsee, unspectacular
flat water and on the other side
low wooded banks,
but this was where the old road ran,
he knew it, yes, for sure.
That moment, then,
eight friends in a Land Rover,
exuberant
and singing Die Forelle over and over again,
missing the words sometimes,
never the tune, the harmonies.
They were close in a good time,
their destination Istanbul and further east,
Damascus.
He understood it better now,
how they had wandered in and out of each other’s lives:
In fifty years where had they gone
or where had he gone himself?

The Chiemsee lapped its waters,
presented and then loosened strings of connection,
making no comment.