Archives

Mantz Yorke
Innerscape

Now through the fleshy wormhole,
the camera transmits to the monitor
an orange disk in the blackness of space.
Not arid Mars, for this planet is outside-in,
Its surface traversed by rivulets of red.

The probe scans this monotonous terrain
till it lights upon the target–
a small, off-white cumulus,
like bubbles blown by a straw.

A metal loop sweeps again and again
into the cumulus, shredding it into wisps
that quickly disappear,
then a ball rolling to and fro
cauterises the scar.

Purple eclipses the disk–chemo
infused to kill any malign residues.
Someone switches off the monitor:
the procedure is complete.

Numbed by a spinal block,
I’ve been able to see for myself
(so I don’t need to be told, post-oblivion)
the tumour’s been excised.
At last, the beginnings of hope.

Kris Spencer
Porte de la Chapelle

his dreams are boats
in this watched city
they put spikes in doorways
a concrete pyramid
    in a window well
the benches are round
he wonders why
they want to make
this place of dreams
    a sprung trap
he has never seen
the sea he wants to cross
he remembers goats
    perched in
    olive trees
    staring out
sleeping on cardboard
beneath the underpass
there is always
the movement of the trains
like waves crashing
everyone is covered here
his turquoise coat
and pink shawl
    tied in the Tuareg way
he has his father’s face
    lined by years of searching
his mother’s hope
    hidden in a scarf

Hollis Kurman
A Perfect Procession

It wasn’t until she died that she got to ride in the white
carriage of her dreams, drawn by four fine, pale mares,
cobblestone clopping in sombre sorority,

festive mourners snaking behind, holding single blooms
or balloons aloft in a trickle of still, bouncing palette pink
and white, air thickening as steps went slack.

A boatman piped sacred songs from the water, an undertow if
canals have one, sticking to the little city bridges, teasing visitors
from the farmers’ market as they slipped

fragrant cheeses into their totes and turned. What a perfect
procession, and what might they be celebrating on this clear,
hot morning, as no one speaks or sings?

It wasn’t her first time singing in a church, her voice bell
lifting to the Westertoren and daring throats to catch,
eyes to avert, her soundtrack of sweet

animation, oversized princess eyes scanning the pews
from their screen; the notes kept coming, lifting, lancing,
the news in quarter notes, a quartered

life, and she sang her heart out from her place not there.
Remember, the crotchet is a fleeting fourth of semibreve,
and rarely has brevity sliced so slowly.

Would she have wept along, unwrinkled hand to dimpled
cheek, knowing of the horse-drawn mourning, petal scent
pulling away, balloons squirming loose?

BIS! She would grant us one more melody. Finger pads
grazing her collar bone, she opened her mouth wide and
gave the performance of her life.

Claudia Gary
The Body

It catches up—sore teeth,
cramped neck or growing belly—
demanding our attention
once and for all. Beneath

a well-established brain,
above submissive toes,
the rest of it rebels
at our neglect, to gain

maybe not sympathy
but serious concern—
whatever is required
for us to stop and see

its loyalty. A steed
deserving of a gallop,
water and oats, in want
of love, it must be freed.

Allyson Dowling
End of Summer

It was always summer between them
 
             a temporary enchantment.
 
The sacred naming of plants, woodland groves
 
carrying the sun for each other as they dangled
 
             hot feet in light-filled streams.
 
 
They were fearless really
 
             as people are when the world is briefly theirs.
 
Riding horses in the fields, pockets of sugarlumps,
 
diving deep into dark green pools and vanishing
 
             only to resurface rimed with silt.
 
 
 
Mostly, they lay on their stomachs
 
             picking leaves from each other’s hair.
 
One sunstruck body entwined in another,
 
promises of always be together, imagining even
 
             a house beside a great river, geese outside the door.
 
 
 
And they were too reckless to see the drooping and yellowing,
 
the deepening shadows
 
             the cold smell at the edge of the trees.
 
 
Until, suddenly, one day
 
             they were called back home.
 
Not understanding that it was forever this time.
 
 
 
Maybe one did come back, just to see,
 
             but the emptiness felled her.
 
And she ran out of the woods
 
             so that she could forget.