Ricky Garni

 

THE TALKIES

The woman I met today looked just like Charlie Chaplin’s first wife. But that would be impossible: she would be 109 years old. That’s the difference between me and Charlie Chaplin: he fancied very young women, I prefer older ones. If she were to say, “You have to marry me—I’m pregnant!” I wouldn’t believe her. Charlie Chaplin would, and did. And it’s not because he was such a wonderful man; he was just easy to fool.  All you had to do was open your mouth and say something.

CP

Ricky Garni is a graphic designer and father of two, living in Carrboro, NC. His writing has appeared in Mad Swirl, Evergreen Review, Used Furniture Review, Abjective, Pedestal Magazine, and many other fine places. The biographies he loves best and confuse him the most always end with this kind of a sentence: "At which point he quit work and decided to devote his life entirely to his poetry."

Heidi Kenyon

 

Even Sheets

When my mother left her third marriage
she took up ironing. First her own
clothes, then mine; soon my doll's
dresses. Even sheets. She showed me
how to open seams flat,
to start with the yoke and let
everything flow from there.
Sometimes she put little creases
in the fabric as she pressed
the big ones out. Musty,
floral scents of starch and sizing
wafted from her room, next to mine;
I fell asleep to the breathing
sound of the iron's steam.

Farm to Table

Does splitting
wood in the rain wash
blood off the axe?

"New agrarianism" sounds
pretty fantastic in print.
Feathers in the kindling,

new, chaotic red flowers
on my pink barn boots.

Eight Kisses

“Sending you eight kisses;
place them where you will.”

Take my hand, in the bar, to begin; brush my
inner wrist with your absinthe lips, send a flutter
of alcohol fire up the radius. Then hold my coat

and as I slip in, catch my jawbone with
your teeth, gently, with a teasing flicker,
and convert that to a chaste cheek kiss to remind

me to keep my shirt on.
In the car cup my chin
as if you mean to kiss me soundly,

but stop, let those sea eyes sparkle, and kiss
my own eyes instead, and bid me wait.
Outside the door, as you jangle

with the keys, don’t kiss me at all; beckon
me in, and take my coat off, and let
your lips caress intricately my top

few vertebrae; your fingers shall explore
the bounds of the velvet bodice. Come
around, push that moss-soft cloth away

from my body, place your next well-chosen
kiss on my breast, just beside the nipple,
to tell me you’re in charge of what comes now

and you’re about to send me spinning. Pin
my hands behind me and breathe lower,
kiss my navel; touch

with your tongue the past and the knotted
ribbon of reverse eternity.  Yes, lower.
Yes, let your lips unlock me, where you kneel

with such intensity, and let the seventh
be the first true kiss after the sweet forever
between then and when you remove

that scrap of thin black lace.
Feast. And finally, now, come here
unto me, and best of all the eight:

give me your mouth.

CP

Heidi Kenyon is the retired co-founder of a cooking school, a former editor at the University of Idaho Press, and the mother of three. She lives in Seattle, Washington.

Shelly Holder

 

Preemptive Mourning

I lost the "thank you" stationary somewhere among the bills and insurance claims. I'm sorry. I thought the colored stripes suited your bright personality but I guess plain black ink reflects me well. I write to the sound of the television. There's no judgment in constant noise, and no loneliness in illusion. The falseness keeps me company.

Don't come. I'm glad you're not here. This sort of thing is only done alone anyway. The flowers were enough. They sit on the kitchen windowsill, white lilies fading in the sunlight.

CP

Shelly Holder, born in the Mojave Desert, now studies at the College of William and Mary in Virginia and enjoys the four distinct weather patterns there. Her work has appeared in Mandala Journal, Everyday Poets, and other fine places.

Meg Johnson

 

I Wish I Was in Jail

I wish I was in jail
because then I would be
given three free meals a day.
I would have time to read
the books I really want
to read and I would have
time to get really buff.
No one would pressure me to
renew an apartment lease
eleven months in advance.
I have no qualms about
the uniform. My high school
colors were orange and black
which I rocked, especially as a
baton twirler. I've always
been complimented on my
license and ID photos so
pulling off a good mug shot
would be a snap. I've also been
wondering if I should have
experimented with being
a lesbian by now and prison
would give me plenty of time
to explore whether I'm bisexual
or not. Anyway, I just thought
I'd let you know what's new with
me now that we're dating again.
You can pretend to be turned off
by the idea of conjugal visits
but you won't be fooling anyone.
I'm sure you could help me
find a good crime to commit.

"Be Prepared"

I quit Girl Scouts
the day after my troop's
after school activity was
polishing silver. It was
a child's version of buyer's
remorse. It was like
you get married and your
spouse starts making pet
jewelry. Polishing silver was
a preview to dater's remorse.
I was 24 and on a third date.
My date's living room
was equipped with a
stripper pole and disco
ball. Like a sort of sexual
hostage, he forced a
strip tease/pole dance on me.
Scattered clothes around
the room. His upside down
body hanging from the pole.
I sat on the couch like a
1950's secretary with
agoraphobia. My crotch
like the desert.

Practice

Before my first piano lesson
I saw a girl cry.
My mother dropped me off early.
The piano room had a curtain
for a door.
I watched the end of
the preceding lesson.
Not much older than me
the girl was seated at the
piano, playing and crying.
I never liked playing the piano.

CP

Meg Johnson's poems have appeared in Slipstream Magazine, Word Riot, Blood Lotus, WTF PWM, U.S. 1 Worksheets, and others. Her poem "Free Samples" was nominated for Best of the Net. She blogs at: megjohnsonmegjohnson.blogspot.com