Somebody’s Son

by Lesléa Newman

was stashed in the doorway

like trash nobody had bothered

picking up. A grown man

curled on his side

one arm bent behind his back

at an ungodly angle

as if he were reaching up

to scratch that spot

between the shoulder blades

that’s impossible to reach

when you’re itchy and alive

one bloodshot eye wide with surprise

somebody’s son, whose tongue

was lolling out, whose white skin

was caked with grease and grime

so thick I could have traced

“wash me” on his back

as if he were a sooty moving van

but he was the only unmoving thing

on that hustle bustle street, 5:00 p.m.

corner of Seventh Ave. and West 59^th

hordes of people spilling out of buildings

everyone getting off work at once dying

to get home, kick off the heels

loosen the tie, relax with a stiff

one, nobody had a New York minute

to help out somebody’s son

who stayed still as a stop sign

as the city swirled around him

his pocked cheek cradling

the sweaty concrete step

his flattened feet folded

like two fallen wings

his faded blue jeans stained and holey

somebody’s son, maybe yours?

maybe mine? surely he was somebody’s son

once upon a time

* * * * *

"Somebody's Son" copyright ©2018 Lesléa Newman from Lovely (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Here is a book trailer for Lovely: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fh27-KoGS84.

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s Mother, Signs of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. A recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book. Her latest book is Lovely (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA).

Mirror, Mirror

by Lesléa Newman

Mirror, mirror, on the wall

I look to you to speak the truth:
Who’s the fairest of them all?

My dance card full at every ball

I sparkled like a jewel with youth,

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

I once inspired men to brawl,

my brand new beauty sleek and smooth

I was the fairest of them all.

But now old age has come to call

and I’ve grown longer in the tooth,

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

I spent a fortune at the mall

and hours in a make up booth,

Am I the fairest of them all?

Shrouded in a wrinkled pall

I beg you not to be uncouth:
Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Say I’m the fairest of them all.

* * * * *

“Mirror, Mirror” copyright ©2018 Lesléa Newman from Lovely (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA). Here is a book trailer for Lovely: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fh27-KoGS84.

Lesléa Newman is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, children’s book writer and anthologist whose 70 books include the poetry collections, Still Life with Buddy, Nobody’s Mother, Signs of Love, and October Mourning: A Song for Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) which received a Stonewall Honor from the American Library Association. Ms. Newman’s literary awards include poetry fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation; the Burning Bush Poetry Prize; and second place runner-up in the Solstice Literary Journal poetry competition. From 2008-2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Currently she is a faculty member of Spalding University’s low-residency MFA in Writing program. A recent poetry collection, I Carry My Mother, received the 2016 Golden Crown Literary Society Poetry Award and was named a “Must-Read” title by the Massachusetts Center for the Book. Her latest book is Lovely (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA).

Nourish

by Susan Tepper

from Meditations on dear Petrov

Set in 19^th Century Russia during a time of war

A ripple goes through me as though an arrow meant to capture a boar. I’m hungry, dear Petrov. My frame shakes like the train roaring into the station. What foods will you eat on the battlefield tonight. You never return home looking gaunt. I am a shadow. They must feed you well. I am fearful all the time. For my horse. That the enemy will come over the mountain in purple dusk. Burning the houses. Stealing my horse for slaughter. What then. My last friend in this world. I will be left to die in whatever season. Is this a surprise. You see me each time fading along with the daylight. As a feather you remarked carrying me up the worn stairs. I am worn from the miseries of war. War that cannot sustain any living creature. A war made to nourish the killings and fatten the dead for the maggots to feast. What kind of life have I been called to, dear Petrov. Each day I struggle to lace my boots. To understand the sorrows. I saw a tuft of new green grass along the roadside. It brought me some peace for a moment.

* * * * *

More about Susan Tepper's widely published work can be found at www.susantepper.com.

Haunted Objects

by Tara Isabel Zambrano

During the winter months, Baba would sit on his charpai, a woven bed, cocooned in his rose-colored rajai. When I'd bring a bucket of hot coals and place my warm hands on his scrawny beard, the evening glow would descend in his eyes. He'd describe how Maa made the perfect cow dung cakes and pasted them on the walls to dry. Sometimes she'd line them up and call it a procession of stars across the sky. Back then, he'd laugh at her. Now he'd stare at the empty walls with faded circular markings. I'd watch him grow quiet and anxious, as if he was at the threshold of solving a mystery. Then he'd allow me to sit by his side and tell me another story. Our world would rearrange with Maa and a trail of stars. The arc of moon would rise in the corner of our eyes, and like haunted objects the wheat fields would go from green to purple and then black with a swirl of silver around their edges. 

* * * * *

"Haunted Objects" was previously published in Star82* Review.

More about Tara Isabel Zombrano at https://taraisabelzambrano.wordpress.com.

The Confession

by Jude Cowan Montague

When I get sad, or when I get angry,

I call upon my devil, Fancy.

John Moore’s wine was churned sour

by the curse in a woman’s stare.

His wife asked me to summon my power

to cure his barrel with prayer

but when I had done this she didn’t thank me,

so I told my devil, Fancy,

‘Go bite the head of his cow

to teach him a lesson or two.’

My Fancy flew into its blind, doughy mouth

provoking a terrified moo,

the cow buckled under and down sank she,

and all because of my devil, Fancy.

Fancy feeds me creamed butter,

cheese and bread with water.

He wreaked my revenge on Robert Nutter

who would have raped my daughter

if he hadn’t died, for which great thanks be

given in full to my devil Fancy.

Witches feast without light.

We feast on flesh without fire.

With Tibb and Fancy, the cloven sprites,

we have what our hearts desire.

When I get sad, or when I get angry

I call upon my devil, Fancy.

* * * * *

"The Confession" which is from Jude Cowan Montague's series, a work in progress, about the Pendle Witches based on the transcripts of the trials.

Jude Cowan Montague worked for Reuters Television Archive for ten years. Her album 'The Leidenfrost Effect' (Folkwit Records 2015) reimagines quirky stories from the Reuters Life! feed. She produces 'The News Agents' on Resonance 104.4 FM. Her most recent book is The Originals (Hesterglock Press, 2017).

Plottage

by Jude Cowan Montague

He razed her mouth, raised this

pilgrim eco cabin.

Curious birdwatchers

note odd calls from the copse.

  

She drifts near when it rains

turning tourists nervous.

Bewildered messages

drip in clues down the panes.

  

The roots root out the dirt

roaming loamy channels.

Consuming minerals

in veins bled through the field.

Her legs twist in the trough,

buckled under flowers.

Delicate contrivance,

which guest will spring its trap?

* * * * *

Jude Cowan Montague worked for Reuters Television Archive for ten years. Her album 'The Leidenfrost Effect' (Folkwit Records 2015) reimagines quirky stories from the Reuters Life! feed. She produces 'The News Agents' on Resonance 104.4 FM. Her most recent book is The Originals (Hesterglock Press, 2017).

Store Manager 1980

by Charlotte Hamrick

You stalked me between the aisles, 

amongst the personal hygiene products            

and pain medications. I knew when you 

were creeping up by the squeak of your            

shoes. It was always at lunchtime, when            

the others were gone—an opportunity            

to grab my ass while I was dusting            

shelves. In the back room you'd pin me           

against the wall and lay your slobbery lips            

on mine, but it was your cold shaking            

hands that repulsed me more than            

your spit in my mouth. They told me             

you knew what you were doing was wrong 

but were determined to do it 

anyway. For three long years I dodged           

your clammy hands and stares,            

your brown eyes pleading like a starving dog.            

To this day I can't think of you without            

bile rising in my throat. But using your weakness,            

I bided my time until the power shifted            

and you were left with your hands            

between your legs.

* * * * *

Charlotte Hamrick’s poetry and prose has been published in numerous online and print journals, most recently including Muddy River Poetry Review, Eunoia Review, The Rumpus, and Literary Orphans. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for the 15th Glass Woman Prize. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and a menagerie of rescued pets.