Have You Ever Slapped Someone Transparent?

by Agnes Marton

I’ll be a djin, that’s what I deserve.

To linger before becoming a shell.

To be sold without a price

and to feed those who won’t

call me a slave, noble souls.

To skim or not to skim,

my problem, not theirs.

They can speak

up. My masters. Especially him,

his voice is a glacier calving,

drifting them too.    He knows    how to skin

a lion, but it’s me who buries the kids’

darling tabby, humming to mild

the cling of the shovel

on the gravel. We hug. They ask

why I never giggle. Never yawn.

Never say no. They ask why

my name is Where The Hell

Are You Bitch. They don’t even ask

why my flapping hands are wind.

* * * * *

"Have You Ever Slapped Someone Transparent?" was written after the author read this article: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/06/lolas-story/524490/?utm_source=atlfb

Agnes Marton is a Hungarian-born poet, writer, librettist, Reviews Editor of The Ofi Press, founding member of Phoneme Media, Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. She is based in Luxembourg. Her recent publications include 'Estuary: A Confluence of Art and Poetry' (winning the Saboteur Award), her poetry collection ‘Captain Fly’s Bucket List’ and two chapbooks with Moria Books (USA). She has participated in an expedition to the Arctic Circle.

Queen of Swords

by Lisa Marguerite Mora

I am needle sharp, a glint in the scheme

of things. Thread me through the mind

of some greater knowing. I have shriven

I have penanced, sloughed off what was acquired

in ignorance. Surgically clean, light as the glance 

I cast – All is falling away that doesn't hold true

to what I can't help but see. Few can forgive this.


* * * * *

Lisa Marguerite Mora has had work published in Rattle, ONTHEBUS, Rebelle Society, The Urban Howl, Cultural Weekly, Public Poetry Series, Literary Mama, and California Quarterly, among many others including a Blue Mountain Arts Poetry Prize. Recently she has finished a first novel and is at work on second. Lisa studied with author Carolyn See at UCLA where she received a Bachelors in English with a Creative Writing Emphasis. A story editor and consultant, she also conducts creative writing workshops in the Los Angeles area.

With today's stunning poem, "Gender Veils: Moth Women" by Nina Rubinstein Alonso, Writing In A Woman's Voice will take a vacation until July 30, 2017.  Happy days to all.

Gender Veils: Moth Women     

by Nina Rubinstein Alonso

1. Veils

First time Tangier           

women in black veils                                      

wrapped like moths at night 

wings stuck to our front door

chill November signals winter

or something else meaning unclear 

tubes of dark cloth with

women folded inside

walking fear

because our voices

vibrate high notes judged 

unconvincing meaning female

wrapped in satin shawls

lower the tone try to understand

pressure of gender generations  

no school no vote own no   

property even babies belong to            

‘him’—father brother husband

holy books distort dogma

pulled down from infinite source

as if divine wears gender.

2. Ropes

Woman in a Persian garden

arms chained to a blooming tree

no dancing nymph

no swirl of drapery

she screams she cries            

who wouldn’t go mad 

wearing cuffs of gold or iron

caged prisoner wrists

can’t move

can’t try can’t attempt

let rules from ancient days

bend before my axe.

3. Earth Woman Sky              

                                              

She draws moth wings

dark shapes                                             

luna six spot                        

burnet grey dagger

emperor gum

blotched emerald                  

silver vagabond                   

teardrop orchid

adders mouth

adam and eve                      

fairy slipper name after name

lifting moth woman 

             

bent over hair nailed to the ground

cut free will she stand       

are her legs strong enough                     

can earth wings fly?

4.  Noises of leaden prayer

In the brass heat of day

wrapped women

fear men

carrying weapons  

fear change

I’m one spy of many                        

writing underground pages              

whispering under my veil   

                           

pouring light                

generations forward                

we’ll get shot at 

bleed explanations

before brutes  

hearts nailed tight

as if belief makes                 

violence holy

supposedly sacred

banners wave

fraud as truth 

lies insist

trying to shout us down

with noise of funerals

undulant thunder

of leaden prayer.

In the Café

by Sherri Turner

He was talking to himself. Or, rather, he was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

Every now and then he laughed, or raised his eyebrows, or made some other acknowledgement of a silent comment. When his coffee was finished he stood to leave, leaned forward, whispered into an invisible ear.

The next day he returned and did the same. Every day for a week he was there.

On the last day he looked over to where I stood behind the counter, mouthed ‘goodbye’ and I never saw him again.

Until today, that is. The café is still here – I suppose it had to be – though it is more egg and chips than coffee and cakes now, not as posh as when I worked here.

He enters and looks around for an empty seat. I call him over to my table and he raises his eyebrows in query.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say. I don’t try to explain. We have all week for that. Not that I can explain, not really.

He sits down and smiles.

“The chips look good,” he says, “but I think I’ll have a coffee.”

Just as well, as there are no chips on his menu.

He is a good talker, a good listener, too. I kind of understand why he is here, just not how.

When his coffee is finished he leans forward and whispers into my ear.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I reply.

I ignore the people in the café who think I am talking to myself.

* * ** *

"In the Café" was originally published in the National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2015 A Box of Stars Beneath the Bed.

sleepwalking

by Eileen Murphy

            the wrinkled girl

shops for hairpins shops for shoes

buys a brassiere that becomes a brazier

sucks on candy mushroom clouds

            the gray-haired girl

lurks & sighs in stores parading jackets

curious hats beckoning skirts

sweats & skimps in criminal dressing rooms

slips smirking clerks her shaking credit cards

            BUY SAVE DIE

            in my empty condo

i sit

TV blue on my face

dried riverbeds

            mended

            with vitamin E lotion

shampoo                      covers gray

diet plan                      disappears fat

o cruel gods     kyrie eleison

* * * * *

"sleepwalking" was originally published in Poetry Motel (1999).

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.

Rabbit

by Eileen Murphy

A rabbit’s body: broken.

I re-hear its squeal, like a soldier’s cry,

as I dig its grave.

Stupid rabbit

sitting in lilies and palms

thinking it’s safe.

German shepherd

dives

for the rabbit—  

neighbor lady

screams,

No, Snowball! No! —

grabs it

by the neck,

shakes it,

drops

the body

on the grass by our feet.

Rabbit,

wrong place, wrong time.

Like my buddy in Kobul.

House-to-house

search, no

warning, kaboom!

In my bad dream

animal soldiers lie

on their sides

crying for their mothers.

* * * * *

“Rabbit” was first published in 13 Myna Birds.

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.

How Small

by Lori Desrosiers

How small is your world, Mother.
Each day you wake, slowly.
The aide gets your breakfast,
always two poached eggs,
orange juice, decaf coffee
and rye toast. You never want
to get dressed, prefer to sit
for hours in your recliner
in red bathrobe and blanket.
You look at the New York Times
even though you no longer retain
what you read. The days I come
to take you out we have to argue.
You say, I am too tired, I can’t do this.

If I could, I would not disturb,
not force you out of your chair.
Are you afraid, my mother who
traveled, who wrote, who sang?
Daughter of Russian Jewish
immigrants, who survived
poverty, the depression, two wars,
who worked, raised her children
alone after divorce, how is it
you still look beautiful at 93?
In your little world, you fall
asleep sitting in your chair.

Mother on the Beach

by Lori Desrosiers

Our young mother in her navy blue bathing suit
cream cheese sandwiches on the beach.

My brother’s nose under white cream
Mother kept him covered on the beach.

Mother carried a wicker basket
or was it a metal cooler, on the beach.

She held a towel for my brother
so he could change his shorts on the beach.

He had freckles and I didn’t
My pale little brother on the beach.

Before I die, I’d like to see the ocean again.
She’s too old, too frail to get to the beach.

We’d run into the churning surf, if it could
carry us back to Mother on the beach.

Midnight Oil

by Jill Crainshaw

A solitary light beaconed from the distance

                in the wee hours just before

                dawn cracked open the darkness.

Burning the midnight oil.

The Creating One in the beginning of beginnings

—sewing and seaming, stitching

                roots into the earth, fashioning fine

                spring things to adorn bluebirds and bumblebees

                daffodils and dandelions, embroidering soulful

                soil with a smile and breathing into it a

                sigh of delight.

Burning the midnight oil.

A solitary light beaconed from another window

in the wee hours just before
dawn cracked open the darkness.

Burning the midnight oil.

She, created by the Creating One

—whirring and chirring, snipping and clipping,

                weary-wise fingers urging one more scrap

                of this bit of blue, that piece of red

    beneath the ever-marching
    needle-foot of that old Singer Sewer
    Model 301A she kept coaxing and

                cajoling into action one more time

                to fashion an Easter dress or a pair

                of jeans or, one time, a man’s leisure suit.

Burning the midnight oil.

All other eyes in the house, on the street, shuttered tight

                while she followed with single-hearted gaze

                thread that danced and dipped beneath the

material surface, not noticing the

pale winter moon kissing her hand

as the clock ticked on until she sat back

and embroidered into a girl’s last minute

request a tired sigh of delight.

Burning the midnight oil.

The light in that window rests now, but vital

sacred strands spool on at the unfurling edge

of a new crack in a resurrecting dawn, fervent

fibers holding us together

—held in our hands—

                you and I piecing together hope from

                torn and tearing hearts, called by the

                Creating One

“Burn the midnight oil.”

* * * * *

Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. She enjoys exploring how words give voice to unexpected ideas, insights and visions.

Small, Mad Planets

by Lynne Thompson

We are all small, mad planets—

our veins swollen and sock-eye red,

memories short and less than useful;

they cannibalize our bloodstreams.

Old folks, knotted, gnarled, will tell you:

we are all small, mad planets, no less

twisted into a hump-backed tango,

no less implanted in this sad magenta soil.

Perhaps our batteries are dead or our

smoke alarms can’t recite their hard luck

and so we become small, mad planets

where rain in Djibouti doesn’t matter

any more than snow piling up in Duluth.

A child’s creaky yellow wagon is stilled

while a woodpecker’s rap is hysterical

because we’re all such small, mad planets.

* * * * *

"Small, Mad Planets" was first published in Beg No Pardon (Perugia Press, 2007).