the cool wind comes through me

like Jamaica

for T.M.

by Alexis Rhone Fancher

outside, it’s winter.

your life calls.

your wife calls.

you want to sail away.

turn back!

travel instead my aestival coastline,

throat,

collarbone, 

my perfect breasts

sloped like berms in December.

brave the Bermuda Triangle

of my hips

and my belly,

the delectable delta

between my thighs;

plunder those places

your wife won’t

let you go.

desire rules our ocean.

your body echoes my

perfume.

if she loved you as I do, 

you wouldn't be here.

I wouldn't taste like you.

* * * * *

©Alexis Rhone Fancher. First published in ragazine, 2015

Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and other 

heart stab poems, (2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), and Enter Here (2017). 

She is published in The Best American Poetry 2016, Rattle, Slipstream, Hobart, Cleaver, The 

MacGuffin, Poetry East, Plume, Glass, and elsewhere. Her photographs are published 

worldwide, including the cover of Witness, Heyday, and Nerve Cowboy, and a spread in River 

Styx. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of The Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural 

Weekly. She lives in Los Angeles. Find out more at: www.alexisrhonefancher.com 

No way…

by Mara Buck

I have never dreamt of flowing dresses,

trains to trip me up,

veils to blind me,

elaborate fingernails to cripple my hands

as I tear off false lashes,

Silicon and Botox and

Spanx and Panx and the obligatory arsenal

to create of Me the She of the

airbrushed illusion.

I am not Marie Antoinette,

though I like my cake.

We shall share it

and grow fat and happy

together.

Keep your ankle-spraining stilettos,

your push-up bras,

your murderous pantyhose and

all the powder and the paint,

for I am the female of the species

who had the sense to eat the apple

and I found it most delicious.

* * * * *

"No Way" was originally published online in The Lake Literary Magazine, Ireland (11/13) and   subsequently published in the print anthology Like A Girl: Perspectives on Feminine Identity and Development, Lucid Moose Lit (9/15). Author retains all rights

Diagnosis

by Barbara Walker


After the exam,
she showed pictures
of my bones to me.
As I looked at them,
I thought,
what a perfect metaphor
for my life;
structure isn’t sound,
so little support,
where it is needed
and the spacing
between support,
so very far apart.
Sad to say,
it looked as if,
it would crumble
in a light breeze and there
I’d be.

* * * * *

"Diagnosis" was first published in World Poetry Movements anthology, "Stars in Our Hearts" in 2012. 

Barbara Walker now lives in Arizona where she is mesmerized by the gorgeous sunsets. In 2010, A Word With You Press, published her short, short story, "My First Car", in their anthology, "The Coffee Shop Chronicles. In 2012, Spruce Mountain Press published Barbara's short story, "Jack Remembered" in their "Heartscapes, True Stories of Remembered Love", edited by Kate Harper and Leon Marasco. Several of her poems were published in various magazines. 

Forest Sounds

by Barbara Walker

When all the noise, the clamor,
the busyness of life,
weighs down upon my soul,
I long for the serenity that can be found
high in the mountains, among the majestic trees,
where I love to hear the forest sounds.

I, happily, exchange the raucousness of cars
and the incessant ringing of the phone,
for the clamor of the squirrels,
the owl’s solemn cries,
the wind, as it moans
and the chorus of the crickets,
singing lullabies.

* * * * *

Barbara Walker lives in Arizona where she is mesmerized by the gorgeous sunsets. Her poem, "Diagnosis", was first published in World Poetry Movements anthology, "Stars in Our Hearts" in 2012. In 2010, A Word With You Press, published her short, short story, "My First Car", in their anthology, "The Coffee Shop Chronicles. In 2012, Spruce Mountain Press published Barbara's short story, "Jack Remembered" in their "Heartscapes, True Stories of Remembered Love", edited by Kate Harper and Leon Marasco. Several of her poems were published in various magazines. 

The End of Strife in a Single Word

by Florence Weinberger

Coming from the country of insufficiency

where scant grasses and chicken feet could be a meal

my mother, undaunted by the way her languages

were sometimes not enough to make a hearty sentence,

stuck together syllables, phrases, breath and alienation.

On days it rained hard hours on her marketing rounds, 

she pictured clouds so laden with water

that when they cracked open would empty

and empty and finally empty so completely

it would never rain again, it would be done,

and for that she had a single word, ausgereigent, hard g’s. 

Now you might want to know what this has to do with pogroms

and words like kike or spic or chink that get under the skin like ticks. 

Maybe nothing, maybe everything, that’s the way of translation,

a woman drains a cloudburst like a boil, turns it into bliss,

a blue sky, a clear day, stilled water drying in the sun.

* * * * *

"The End of Strife in a Single Word" was first published in Cultural Weekly.

My Very Own Opera

by Florence Weinberger

Every day there’s a hum in the day sometimes a fly bickering with the smell of my sun block the black holes colliding tires wobbling bikers revving egos couldn’t miss the suss of fog the click of dog nails on pavement that’s when the afflicted  earth breaks into its solo I try to belt it out and out comes a mix of every song I ever heard going back to Swanee’s weary hearts and heartless overseers a banjo’d buzz a mood switch to Protestant hymns I’m taught in school most of the kids Jewish and all the teachers Irish Missus Rolla setting lyrics to Saint Saens isn’t what caused static that’s a broken friendship sound a scrape unlike the way the hissy hush erasers made of cotton batting scraps would shush the ice cream truck’s bells suck us out the window hell I sang a cappella no one told me I couldn’t rock a tune so now when drifters sneak up behind me catch me singing arias made of teeth and ruminations so disgraceful they could be a blue chorus line I tarry briefly they’ve already passed thinking I’m old I’m tuneless walk the tarmac not the beach the whales down too deep for revelation until the wail I hear leaps sea miles of mind play annihilates my happy birthday my very own bullet-proof opera something in my song sings a note I can hardly bear.

* * * * *

"My Very Own Opera" was first published in Miramar. 

Bad Decisions

by Roberta Brown

Bad decisions follow for an entire life.

They never tire of walking,

and traverse any landscape,

no matter how tough the terrain.

Unlike people, you cannot give them

the slip, cannot stuff a few things

into a bag, and rush off in the dead

of night to escape them.

They always find an

unlisted phone number

or new address,

even ahead of the post office.

After being forgotten about awhile,

they reassert themselves.

Pushing a cart at the grocery store,

minding your own business, a song plays

taking you right back to one,

and the pain is so great,

that you are thankful for the cart

that keeps you from sliding to the floor.

Even if you isolate yourself

and meditate like a Zen monk

in a room of white walls and wood floors

with your back to the center

facing outward in the Soto style,

they rise from your cushion or clothes,

screaming so loudly that you wonder

if the others can hear them.

Good decisions follow too,

but so quietly you barely know they’re there.

Only occasionally do they look up

from the couch to yawn while filing their nails.

* * * * *

Roberta Brown ã2017 All rights reserved. No use without written permission of the author.

Roberta Brown is an Assistant Professor of English Composition at Western New Mexico University in Silver City, New Mexico.

Nobody Bonds with the Hostess

by Roberta Brown

My dinner party days are over.

They were not all good, I promise,

but some were downright magical.

Most lay somewhere in the middle: good meals,

convivial atmosphere, appropriate music.

The cocktails and wine did their work--relaxing

expressions, raising voices, sharpening appetites.

But I was outside all of that, open concept aside.

I was making sure something did not overcook

in the oven or scorch on the stove.

I was mixing drinks, uncorking bottles, brewing coffee,

making room in the fridge.

I was recounting place settings, serving, clearing,

loading the dishwasher.

I was in the thick of it, of course.

One might say even the center,

and yet outside too, until one night,

it all came clear.

Two friends who knew each other

casually but had never connected,

both married to other people,

also present of course,

hit it off, talking all night,

moving outside, then in, then back out again.

At dessert, their shoulders touched,

and John said, “Carol and I are bonding!”

as if celebrating something that

should have happened years ago.

It occurred to me then that nobody bonds with the hostess.

* * * * *

Roberta Brown ã2017.  All rights reserved. No use without written permission of the author.

Roberta Brown is an Assistant Professor of English Composition at Western New Mexico University in Silver City, New Mexico.

I am that girl

by Ellyn Maybe

I am that girl.

Not that girl of 60’s chandeliers and a swinging do.

Just that girl.

The one that guys would meet and come up with an emergency excuse.

I being gullible empathized with the sudden surgery got to run down the block like a gazelle.

When you stayed and listened like listen was a verb.

When you just simply stayed.

I set up shop like in Trader’s Joe, like a sampler tray.

Could be, mixed with cashews, left a very deep impression.

I dipped my memories into chocolate like I was a strawberry.

And remembered what spring tasted like on planets that didn’t thaw often.

Green, ice lilies, oxygen.

Today's poem by Ellaraine Lockie, "Monologue After the Moon," together with Alexis Rhone Fancher's photo "Los Angeles Hangnail Moon."

Monologue After the Moon

by Ellaraine Lockie

           

            There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

            With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,

            Upon the upturned faces of a thousand roses . . .

            --Edgar Allan Poe

Queen of the Night, where are you

Goddess Luna who used to slide

the silk of your arm through the window

across the bed to massage stress into rest

You who can beacon a safe path for sailors

and nocturnal animals

Your knights of shining armor

in the sky echoing every epical act

Five nights straight your ghost

steals the sleep from my eyes

It stares with its own anemic eyes

and mocking smile

It slithers through the stars

A voyeur who can't

but watches others make love

Great Bear in Swedish folklore says the dogs

up there are so afraid they bark

Even brilliant Sirius dims when your imposter

lifts its bald head out of the darkness

Creeps under trees, haunts houses

and roams cemeteries

And then sheds its rotted rays

over the earth like a shroud

I would welcome even the sinister dreams

it whispers in my ears

rather than this offspring creature

Cannibal who rattles the cage of my mind

Swallows the flesh of my sanity

The iron from my blood

Weariness which doesn't cease when the sun god

awakens the eastern sky

Come back Rishima/Mahina/Mizuki

and honor your eternal commitment to my gender

with your regal crown of light

You who govern the ocean's cycle along with ours

 It's time--the creature is drooling

The red petals on the roses are dropping

* * * * *

"Monologue After the Moon" was first published in All That Remains, a Las Positas College Anthology.

Ellaraine Lockie is a widely published and awarded poet, nonfiction book author and essayist.  Her thirteenth chapbook, Tripping with the Top Down, was just released from FootHills Publishing.  Poetry contest wins have included:  Encircle Publication’s Chapbook Contest Competition for Where the Meadowlark Sings, Women’s National Book Association’s Poetry Prize, Best Individual Collection from Purple Patch magazine in England for Stroking David's Leg and San Gabriel Poetry Festival Chapbook Contest Award for Red for the Funeral.  Ellaraine teaches poetry workshops and serves as Poetry Editor for the lifestyles magazine, Lilipoh.

Goodnight

by Eileen Murphy

I said to my husband, I’m not that tired

& I have cycles & sometimes

my writing is blocked

& I have to take advantage

when I have the fire

& you can suggest I go to bed

but don’t get mad

& then I pointed out that

the Orpheus tale never

mentions Eurydice’s feelings

& maybe she paused on

the doorstep following him out of

the Hades cavern

on purpose because she knew

she would always be following him

& he would always

be making noise,

“sweet noise” being

still noise

& then I lost it

& said, okay, a Caravaggio-style

angel

appeared in the bedroom

one night about a month ago

& told me god wanted

me to write

& that shut him up.

* * * * *

“Goodnight” was first published in White Pelican Review (Fall 2003)

A former Chicagolander, Eileen Murphy now lives 30 miles from Tampa. She received her Masters degree from Columbia College, Chicago. She teaches literature and English at Polk State College in Lakeland and has recently published poetry in Thirteen Myna Birds, Tinderbox (nominated for Pushcart Prize), Yes Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Rogue Agent, Deaf Poets Society, and other journals.

Little Helper

The four boys got exciting toys.

Their messes were soldiers,

Play-Doh, or parts of a train set.

I got Barbie dolls,

a book, new clothes,

or new Barbie clothes.

I didn’t make a mess.
Au contraire, I had to clean up

the boys’ mess, Mama said.

I said, No.

As he swung his belt,

Dad’s face went white, and his freckles stood out.

Dammit!

Obey your mother!

The belt snapped as it bit my shoulders.

Dad went wild,

smacking me on the arms, head, neck.

I howled.

He wasn’t going to stop till he half killed me.

The shoulder of my pajama top had slipped down,

exposing my chest with its pips.

He barked, Shut up!

and flung down the belt.

Not making eye contact,

he pointed towards the door.

Go help your mother.

I cleaned my brothers’ mess.

Model airplanes. Careful.

* * * * *

“Little Helper” was first published in 13 Myna Birds (2016).

A former Chicagolander, Eileen Murphy now lives 30 miles from Tampa. She received her Masters degree from Columbia College, Chicago. She teaches literature and English at Polk State College in Lakeland and has recently published poetry in Thirteen Myna Birds, Tinderbox (nominated for Pushcart Prize), Yes Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, Rogue Agent, Deaf Poets Society, and other journals.

“When I Turned Sixteen Mother Let Uncle Kenny From Chicago Take Me For A Ride”

by Alexis Rhone Fancher

1. Uncle Kenny let the top down on the Chrysler,

fedora protecting his tender scalp.

When I got into the car

he threw his arm over the bucket seat,

fingers grazing the back of my skimpy tube top.

2. PCH, left on Sunset, he took Deadman’s Curve

like a pro, then the slow cruise to

downtown. Like he’d been here before.

July baked my bare shoulders.

Like Uncle Kenny, I burned easily.

3. Sunset ended at Olivera Street.

My uncle chose La Golondrina Cafe.

I ordered the cheese enchiladas.

He ordered a double Margarita, extra salt.

Things I Learned At Lunch:

Dress Well.

Travel Light.

Marry Up.

My mom says you’re good for nothing, I said.

Uncle Kenny slid so close in the booth

his trousers tickled my thigh.

I once made love to Hedy Lamar,

he confessed.

He ran his tongue around the rim of the

margarita glass, licked the salt. His

blue eyes stared right past me.

When the mariachis reached

our table, Uncle Kenny pulled me from the booth,

spun me around the restaurant.

Like all big men, he was light on his feet.

4. The overpriced gold and ruby chandelier earrings

serenaded us from the store window.

5. How much damage, my mother reasoned,

can he do my girl in one afternoon?

6. When Uncle Kenny died soon after

in flagrante delicto, no one was surprised.

I heard it was his heart, my mother said,

but I know he didn’t have one.

She clipped his obituary out of the paper,

pinned it to the refrigerator with a magnet.

In my heart I knew differently.

I drove PCH north, left on Sunset,

an Uncle Kennyesque fedora

shading my eyes.

At Dead Man’s Curve

I threw my head back like I’d seen

Hedy Lamar do in the movies.

My chandelier earrings tinkled in the wind.

* * * * *

©-Alexis Rhone Fancher. First published in Alyss, 2016. Also featured Alexis Rhone Fancher's new collection in Enter Here (2017)

Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and other 

heart stab poems, (2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), and Enter Here (2017). 

She is published in The Best American Poetry 2016, Rattle, Slipstream, Hobart, Cleaver, The 

MacGuffin, Poetry East, Plume, Glass, and elsewhere. Her photographs are published 

worldwide, including the cover of Witness, Heyday, and Nerve Cowboy, and a spread in River 

Styx. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of The Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural 

Weekly. She lives in Los Angeles. Find out more at: www.alexisrhonefancher.com 

LUST AT THE CAFE FORMOSA

by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Once, at the Cafe Formosa in L.A., 

I saw the most beautiful girl. And

the  best part was, you could see she didn’t know it. Yet.

Didn’t know how anxiously her nipples strained

against her shirt, or that her endless legs   

and sloe-eyed gaze were worth a million

bucks... to someone.

She was a sway-in-the-wind willow, her skin

the pale of vanilla ice cream, her hair all shiny black 

straight like an Asian girl’s, thick as a mop.

She was maybe seventeen, on the brink, so ripe

sex exuded from her pores. She leaned against the juke box

fingering those quarters in her shorts’ pocket

so they jingled like Christmas, the fabric

between her thighs stretched to bursting.

When her food arrived, the girl unwrapped

the chopsticks, lifted Kung Pow chicken to her mouth, 

inhaled the spicy morsels. A long, sauce-slicked 

noodle played with her lips and I longed to lick it off. 

I’d been alone four years by then,

so used to it even the longing had long departed.  

Then she showed up, all fresh-spangled, clueless.

If I didn’t walk out then I never would. Elvis was crooning

Don’t Be Cruel, but I knew she would be.

Girls like her can’t help it. 

* * * * *

©Alexis Rhone Fancher First published in poeticdiversity, 2014

Alexis Rhone Fancher is the author of How I Lost My Virginity to Michael Cohen and other 

heart stab poems, (2014), State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (2015), and EnterHere (2017). 

She is published in The Best American Poetry 2016, Rattle, Slipstream, Hobart, Cleaver, The 

MacGuffin, Poetry East, Plume, Glass, and elsewhere. Her photographs are published 

worldwide, including the cover of Witness, Heyday, and Nerve Cowboy, and a spread in River 

Styx. A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of The Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural 

Weekly. She lives in Los Angeles. Find out more at: www.alexisrhonefancher.com