Amanda England

 

Saying Goodbye

My echoing footsteps call out to you,
the too loud tapping makes weary wooden boards sigh.
Wide empty walls are pockmarked with putty holes
where pictures of us used to hang.
The beige carpet is flattened where our bed stood,
and the empty closet gapes in disbelief.
I linger longest in the kitchen:
phantom smells of chocolate and bleach
come from cabinets that hang open in defeat.

Grief

So far she’s erased every line.
She’s trying to loosen her soul
by unwinding the cords that bind her,
but as it pulls away it tangles.
They say time will smooth the strings
but she doesn’t want to lose the picture
of her father that’s in her mind—the only thing
she has left.

So, she unburdens, line by line,
writing words and
erasing them to join him,
until she is left with a snub pencil,
eraser worn to a nub, and a
piece of paper, torn and smudged, that is still
empty.

CP

Amanda England is an English major in college. Her writing has appeared in The Orange Room Review, The Legendary, The New Plains Review, The Foundling Review, and Heavy Hands Ink. Read more about her at http://lazywritersguidetoprocrastination.blogspot.com/.

H.T. West

 

Waiting

She forces herself
to listen, not insert
her words into the space
between his words
even though she knows
with certainty
all he is about to say.

She excels in précis,
not in patience
yet here she sits, silent,
concentrating
on a junco at the window—
the way it moves its tail
in sharp quick flicks.

Sometimes It Matters

She had always been a poor speller—
not that she was unintelligent
but the way letters fit together
to form something
larger than themselves
never seemed important
until one day. . .

mass
she learns to spell it
-tectomy

Afterwards

He didn't know
he'd wait for her on Fridays
outside the salon, to see sunlight
bouncing off her new curls. He didn't know
he'd hear her singing when the lilacs bloomed
or that he'd miss the tap tap tapping
of her pencil as she searched for nine letters
to spell out Be my guest. He didn't know
how many loads of wash she did each week.
Or where to buy steel-cut oats. Or that
a dry martini for one wasn't nearly as much fun.
He didn't know a hole in a spider's web
could make him weep. Or that
one white bowl and pewter spoon
would look so lonely in the kitchen sink.

CP

H.T. West hates writing bios but has had work published in various print and online journals and anthologies, including flashquake and 2River View.

Solla Carrock

Lisa

-Scientists say that conversation is a dance. Body movements of the listener, such as eye blinks and hand gestures, are synchronized with the speaker's speech rhythms and/or body movements. But this hasn't been found to be true of children with autism.

In a tea shop you'd twirl the cups.
In a shoe store you'd stack the boxes high.
A pawn shop would make you sing; you'd

line up crystal and tap to make it ping,
and run away when it all goes falling,
and hide your face when it all goes falling.

I try to catch your eyes; you look at air.
Scientists map the dance of words,
speak, follow, bodies move in space and rhyme,

but you don't dance. You can't.
Lisa, I speak your name, you look at air.
How may I find you, let you rest,

sailor home from the sea.
The cups spin out. The boxes crash
and crystal breaks. Your mouth opens

but no sound comes.
How can I find, a rhythm larger
or smaller, lullaby, a dance for you,

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,
that old soft shoe,
me who cannot dance, who has no rhythm,

no style, all awkward stumbling limbs.
No choice then, but to step the dance
that is no dance and sing the song that

is no song, and lift you high upon my shoulders.
For, I can't dance, but how can I not dance,
Lisa, for you.

You move as I move; my hands hold your legs,
your arms cradle my head, till I forget
legs, arms, foot, knee, elbow, and all else but

you and me and the dance. And just
then you laugh gentle as sea foam.
You bend your head down to see.

Your smile is upside down, your eyes are upside down.
your upside down eyes, green as the sea, your
eyes look straight into my eyes.

CP

Solla Carrock has spent most of her adult life in Portland, OR, where she attended Reed College. Her writing has appeared in Portland Review, Bartleby Snopes, Ascent Aspirations, 34th Parallel and many other fine places.

Laura Garrison

 

Memories of a High School Mascot

I was the Gainsfield Gorilla.
My long arms and bad posture
may have been all wrong
for the cheerleading squad,
but they were perfect
for the hirsute ape suit.

Through the black mesh
of the gorilla's mouth,
I watched you kick
the field goal that won
the Homecoming game.

Of course, you didn't know
that I beat my chest
only for you.

You probably thought
I was a boy; most
people did, like that guy
with the caterpillar
mustache who laughed
when his kid punched me
in the stomach.

I used to fantasize about
my zipper getting stuck.
You would rush in
when I called for help
and pull me, gasping,
from the thick foam and fur,
and we would spend the night
in the locker room sauna,
peeling bananas and checking
each other for bugs.

CP

Laura Garrison grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Maryland with her husband.  She is the type of person who leaves her Christmas lights up all year.

Janann Dawkins

The Ones Who Got Away

There are men you can't catch. There are men
who sidle down a winding sidewalk
when you try to run your fingers through them.
Ghosts race their shadows. They dart
in and out of alleyways, their faces
faintly captured in a bistro's picture window
as your eyes chase after.

A Prayer for Winter

I have learned to breathe like fabric,
to twirl in weak December sunshine.

As age comes, I am agnostic.
I fantasize about domesticity, lust,
hands on skin, aprons, pets.
I have learned that no matter what we believe

our breath will continue.
In December, my breath is crystalline;
my hands are gloved. I think of serving
Christmas dinners with these hands,
carving turkey, scooping corn,
petting my future daughter on the head

while laughing. My breath would be warm,
hers, young. I do not see a husband.
I am in flux now, only yet feeling the tock
of my biology, just wanting to feel the skin
of infants, not needing.
I do not ask God for a man.

CP

Janann Dawkins lives in Ann Arbor. Her writing has appeared in decomP, Existere, Mezzo Cammin, Phoebe, Two Review and other fine places. Leadfoot Press published her chapbook, Micropleasure,  in 2008. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.