Like You and My Knees

by David Veloz

I'm eating all the time,
but I need more. My shirt
fits like a wolf or like
a wolf suit on a woman
who starves herself for love.

My ribs rattle when I sleep,
my knuckles puff when I
crack them. If I ask
you to fish me out
of an icy jail or dress
me with your hands in your pockets,

believe me that my own pockets
are mouths like your mouth
around my hands, and my pants
are tight around the knees,
which is nothing like you and my knees.

Red in the Sun

by David Veloz

Bring home to me
my tools, my ladder,
and let me build
a kitchen or a patio.
Let my bald head
turn red in the sun.

I sleep outside
by the elm now,
I read at night.
Your carburetor
is shot, cranked
tight in the vice.

I keep your camera
in a sack by the gate.
There's film for what
I need. I murder
my thick heart
while I wait
to see you in
something blue.

Translation of Relics

by Elizabeth Tervo

"The Fall of the Albatross" by Sydnie Poulsen

“The Fall of the Albatross” by Sydnie Poulsen

With apologies to Giorgi Lobjanidze and to Rumi 


“Our knowledge is but borrowed.
It is a problem for our souls,”
wrote a poet in a faraway language
translating an even farther away language
which is the tissue of fairytales: I will never know it.

So I read it wrong and I understood instead:
“our souls are but borrowed,
they are stolen.”
In the gap between one language and the next language
is a mystery, so I sat down to write.

Later that day I was standing 
between one stone and the next stone,
on the wet green grass in the cemetery
and the borrowed souls milled around in my mind.

We waited while her body was lowered
then we did not know what to do, because
they never fill in the earth while we are there—why?
Please, do it, cover her up, keep her safe.

I turned away and saw the hearse in the line of cars
and I thought, it is waiting for her,
to take her back to the church and then home.
She will need to rest, such an old lady.

Idiot! I saw her go into the ground myself.
She is not going anywhere.
We came to the cemetery, today, with her,
and the flowers, and the tears, and the crowd
exactly on purpose to leave again without her.

The uterus is the hearse
that carries us into this world
and leaves again, empty.

We like to stand up and call our souls “ours,”
but we are only borrowed.
In the gap between the one darkness 
and the next darkness is a mystery, color, life.

 

 

Elizabeth Scott Tervo is a Presvytera, or Greek Orthodox priest’s wife, at St Sophia Church in Washington State. She has published poetry and stories in the New Haven Review, the Wheel, the Basilian and other journals. Her memoir The Sun Does Not Shine Without You, about the time she spent as an exchange student on the eve of the breakup of the USSR, came out in 2021 in the country of Georgia by Azri publishers.

(Art) The photographer wanted to depict the moment in Coleridge’s famous poem Rime of the Ancient Mariner, where the albatross is shot; this action in the poem prompts a chain of events, and this photograph captures the haunting effects of the tale. This ballerina is draped in a shroud, like a ghost, representing the death of the bird and the tragedy of the loss of innocent life.

Fragments from Ernesto and Leti

by Isaiah Rubio

"caves" by Janessa Lewis

“caves” by Janessa Lewis

He rode The Beast. She walked miles.
On The Beast, he said, I saw a man fall off
to the tracks. Just gone. She set off 

from a small village in Jalisco at 15, said, 
I was the only girl there. All the other people
were men. But there was one older gentleman.
He took care of me and made sure 
I was protected. Once, he got caught

and was sent back to his village in Oaxaca.
He said he’d try it one more time.
He held onto that Beast 
until he abandoned it. In Reedley, 

they found work in those endless fields. 
He was already in a relationship
when we met, she said, but they eventually separated. 
30 years later, with three sons, she reflects:

When we got close to the border, 
we told each other ‘Good-byes’ and ‘good lucks.’ 
I never saw the older gentleman again. At a stop 

and inspection, he hid in a shipping container:
I saw the officer with his flashlight 
looking around. I swear to God, he flashed his light 
on me and he saw me, eye to eye,
but he kept looking until he left. In that silence,
he waited until the Beast roared and moved again. 


Isaiah Rubio is studying poetry in the MFA program at Brigham Young University.

(Art) Janessa Lewis was born in 1998 and is from Springville, Utah. While receiving her BFA from Brigham Young University, Lewis has been in several group exhibitions. She makes work that revolves around the human experience with land and how the earth is transforming. The earth is the common thread that weaves between nations, cultures, and communities, tying individuals together through shared experience and a foundation of empathy. Through visual symbols and imagery often seen in land, she communicates ideas around the themes of memory and place, pain and growth, and our relationships with humans and deity. Lewis gravitates toward painting, drawing, and printmaking techniques.

Relapse

by Isaiah Rubio

"RESIDUAL I" by Samantha Atzbach

“RESIDUAL I” by Samantha Atzbach


                                          With this handgun
                                                                 I pull 

                                                            the trigger
                                                                   to
                                                  de  stroy

             my third eye. The muse
                      says nothing,
                                                               closes
                                                               her 
                                                               vision,

                                                 and
                                           leaves me

                      in silence. I burn
                                    my pile of wood
                                    on the first day

              of winter. I hide in churches
                                                                to save
                                                 time

                      for the retribution. I think

                                     I want this. 





Isaiah Rubio is studying poetry in the MFA program at Brigham Young University.

(Art) Sam Atzbach (b. 1998) is currently living and working in Provo, Utah. Her foci are painting, 
textile, and sculpture. Her work examines the relationship between predecessor and successor, the 
weight of being, and the immutable collective unconscious that exists within the sentient and 
insentient, irrespective of time and space. She seeks to reconcile the constant pull from the past and 
push of the future to find space in the present in-between through an assemblage of apparition-like 
figures, guttural marks, found stones, and organic forms, both human and non-human.

Self-Portrait as Flying Turtle

by Carol Berg

               “Florida Woman Survives Being Hit By Flying Turtle”—Huffpost headline

I am old-born and come haunting you through sky-encounter.
You misunderstand the messages I bring of knees and breasts.
The knots of the air are uninvolved in this four-cornered world
of windshield. My leather paws gripping you like a lonely
masturbator. Can you rearrange this stumble? I might be the small
god of preconceptions but you must empty your house of dragons.
Do you see my candles flickering under my shell? Meditate on my
moth-breath that has kissed your forehead, tasted your mind.

 

 

Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in Gyroscope, Crab Creek Review (Poetry Finalist 2017), DMQ Review, Hospital Drive (Contest Runner-Up 2017), Sou’wester, Spillway, Redactions, Radar Poetry, Verse Wisconsin. Her chapbooks, Her Vena Amoris (Red Bird Chapbooks), and “Self-Portraits” in Ides (Silver Birch Press) are available. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and Best of the Net. She was winner of a scholarship to Poets on the Coast and a recipient of a Finalist Grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council.