Issue #76
Sofia Eun-Young Guerra
Sofia Eun-Young Guerra is a writer and incoming undergraduate student at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology from Tacoma, Washington. Her work has previously appeared in JMWW. Outside of writing, she spends her time pursuing other art forms, such as music and origami, and research..
Patricia Rockwood
STATIONS OF FALL
In feverish display the last leaves
linger, thirsty and vivid, trembling
as they approach oblivion. I am
seduced by their bright death.
Soon the first sharp wind of winter
rips them, tumbles them to sacrifice.
They sigh, released at last. They crack
beneath my shoes like bones.
I rake, and pile, and burn. Quick breaths
of fire leap to join the red lips
of leaf and flame, the grey thighs
of smoke and sky. Long ago,
innocent of the fires of love and loss,
I pressed the relics in my books.
Slow death by memorabilia—safe
from passion and from promises.
There's no escaping now. The fire
moans and sighs. The pretty leaves
expire. And all my hopes of spring
rest on this extinguishing.
Patricia Rockwood lives in Sarasota, Florida, where she teaches creative writing and mosaic art at Suncoast Technical College. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gyroscope Review, Split Rock Review, Humana Obscura, Plains Poetry Journal (ed. note – January 1988, out of publication), and elsewhere.
Jean Anne Feldeisen
Strange Birds
As kids we spelled it like we thought
a crow's call would be spelled, A-U-K. Auk.
used it to talk, to find each other
in the woods, or a strange place. Auk Auk.
Never mind years later realize
our word named a large arctic bird
long extinct. When I hear the call
I look up, hunt for my siblings.
Meeting my sister for lunch yesterday
I saw her pop her head in the restaurant
door, scan the room. Without thought-
out of my mouth flew a loud Auk, Auk.
The heads of those at the next tables
Turned to stare in unison. I quickly looked
bored. Had someone screamed like a bird?
Giving me away, she homed in neatly on our nest.
Jean Anne Feldeisen lives on a farm in Maine, is a grandmother and psychotherapist. Her poetry has been published in “Thimble,” “The Hopper,” “Spank the Carp“, and “The Ravens Perch.” Her first chapbook, “Not All Are Weeping,” was published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company in the May of 2023.
Edie Meade
The Last Day of Summer
|
Children kicking teal balls and lavender Out in the park the children call bees who are spending more time elsewhere pack away the picnic blankets bees Out in the field of the park the trees and me year to year lavender and neon green zigging the beepaths |
children kicking neon the field now children meeting the new kicking teal the fleet of life |
Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and musician in Petersburg, Virginia. Recent work can be found in Invisible City, New Flash Fiction Review, Atlas & Alice, The Normal School, Pidgeonholes, Litro, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere. Say hello on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/“.
Jeanne Rana
TIME OF YELLOW LEAVES
a wind off the bay
the maple is crimson
the line of ginkgoes yellow
against blue sky
now gray clouds
darken, threaten
I bring in the big green patio umbrella
take out of the closet
my little black one
Jeanne Rana has been published in El Portal Literary Journal, Apricity Magazine, Cantos, Clackamas Literary Journal, The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Fresh Rain, Blood Tree Literature, California Writers Club Literary Review, Marin Poetry Center Anthology, Feather River Bulletin, Earth’s Daughters, Edison Literary Review, Flights, Paterson Literary Review, and Perceptions Magazine.
Naima Ramakrishnan
music
who plays that music at night?
scratchy aluminium foil whisper rubbing against damp Mumbai air.
60th floor of a 70-floor building. i can’t see the road anymore. i can’t hear the cars. if i threw a stone from here i could kill someone, probably dent their bald head maybe pierce their skull, but i wouldn’t see their corpse the ambulance the taxi drivers & shoe-polishers & chaiwalas scratching their heads & staring up at the sky & saying it was an act of God & it would be pointless in the end. on the 60th floor everything is pointless. when i allow myself to become angry i slam doors because that’s what one does, but i’ve never seen the point & i’ve never really been angry enough to warrant a broken door and chipped paint and unfamiliar workmen tracking mud their splayed toes & their ugly sandals. have you ever spent so much time scrolling through pictures of baby rabbits on Instagram that they lose their frivolous marshmallow-esque beguiling innocence & if you were to see one on the street in a pink bikini you would not clap laugh & maybe take a selfie you would run it over & reverse & run over it again?
that’s what i feel about most things these days. i am disillusioned by the current state of the world. i would dye my hair black
if it wasn’t black already. i would stick my hands between the blades of my ceiling fan if i hadn’t switched to central air conditioning last month.
spend too much time in central air conditioning set to 23℃ & you lose your sense of smell. lose your sense of smell & you lose your sense of taste & now everything tastes like an airplane bread roll as plump and bland as the air hostess’ white cheeks when she smiles tiredly at the lech in row 34A & forgets once again what the road looks like for that is the price of living up in the sky.
the price of absolute silence. no goonda boys shrieking to their friends on the road. no feral rabid dogs barking up at the moon. no drunk men singing love songs to the village girl they left behind when they moved to Mumbai
or Mumbai moved to swallow them.
no sounds at all except for that. fucking. music.
scratchy aluminium foil whisper rubbing against damp Mumbai air. if i found who played it i would squash them with my skinny fists. that music is the only thing keeping me alive & i would very much prefer to die.
Naima Ramakrishnan lives in Mumbai. She loves trees, alternative rock music, and reading books.
Ray Malone
étude 35
time tinting the leaves, the turning
of hues in the eye, tides in the mind,
line after line after line, folding itself
into the world: a wave away,
from the incoming cold, seeping in
to your feet, from the casting off
of all that’s passed, all the trees
seen, dreamt under, every increment
of green remembered, every spent
word whispered in the shade of:
as it were a mere walk to the shore,
from the eye’s fire to the sea’s
extinguishing, of everything,
from the ear’s engorgement
to the deafening end, of silence:
as it were a matter of self,
sifting the shingle, for the sounds,
for the tone of every stone lifted,
let down again: as it were the faint sound
of a leaf, falling, brown to the ground
Ray Malone is an Irish writer and artist living in Berlin, Germany, working on a series of projects exploring the lyric potential of minimal forms based on various musical and/or literary modes/models. His work has been published in numerous print online journals in the US, UK and Ireland.
David Henson
Stone Legs
I move slowly
as the moon swells,
driftwood crosses a lake,
Minnesota thaws in April.
People hear distant thunder
when I walk,
even in Kansas
imagine pounding waves.
You trace your fingers
down my thighs,
which once wept
from a cavern ceiling.
My knees fit in your palms
as they did a ravine.
A plow turned my calves;
a river washed my ankles.
Now, Love, the time has come.
Don’t be frightened.
Take the sledgehammer.
Free the flesh and blood
within this stone,
and we will dance again.
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois, USA. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart prizes and has appeared in numerous journals. His Twitter handle is @annalou8. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com