I Was Eve – a poem by Deborrah Corr

I Was Eve

that naked rib, weaving through tiny words
on the tissue pages of my bible.
I lifted her out of the ink and drank her.

The curves of her body glowed, clothed 
only in the warmth of a young sun  
that seeped through the leaves of Eden.  

Eden, that scrim of perfection,
paper thin and easily torn.  

She had seen the serpent, long and supple, 
wound around branches and coiled 
at the base of trees.  It writhed a path

in the soil and grass.  Unrestricted.
How would it feel, its one cord-like
muscle massaging its way all over

her body.  She wanted to dance with it 
twined around her torso.  Oh, the tingle
of its tongue on her skin.

Temptation to know and know,
throw open the garden gates.

Deborrah Corr is a long-time resident of Seattle where she taught kindergarten for twenty-eight years.  Currently, she is digging as deeply as she can into the joy and craft of poetry.  She also quilts, reads, and enjoys the outdoors where she can be seen watching and sometimes talking with birds.  Her work has appeared in Crosswinds Poetry Journal, The Halcyon, and Raven Chronicles and will be included in upcoming issues of The Main Street Rag and Sequoia Speaks.

Transfiguration – a poem by James Robert Kibby


Sitting between the law and prophets, 
The word that holds them together, 
Bound not in letters transcribed 
But in glorified flesh and bone. 
It is good to be here but not to stay.
Mountain rest must be spoken in the valley. 
Transfiguration comes by going down; 
Our perishable seed planted for the imperishable. 

Dew of Tabor collects into a stream, 
Watering the fields prepared for glory; 
Holy potential we glimpse in Spring 
As light illuminates vivid hues 
Born in tulips and daffodils, 
Woken by the piping of playful crocus: 
Delicate as children, in carefree laughter. 

Even the canopy of cherry blossoms bear 
Splendor as which graced the visage of Moses, 
Who spoke plainly with God as to a friend. 
He veiled his face to hide what was fading in the Old, 
Longing to behold the unfolding of the New 
Made manifest in blooming buds 
And green blades of young grass, 
Caught up in the song and dance of Creation. 

Never to what has been but what will be. 
Transfiguration comes by growing up. 
It is good to be here, to rest awhile; 
Bound not in letters transcribed 
But in the word made flesh around, 
Over our heads and under our feet, 
Nourished by the dew of Tabor.

James Robert Kibby is an accomplished songwriter and aspiring poet whose love for creative writing began when he authored and illustrated his first comic book at age 11. James has poems published through Calla Press and The Voices Project and is currently working on his first poetry collection.

The Fisherman – a poem by A. Michele Leslie

The Fisherman

At the shore
a silver boat gleams
beneath the moon

and a white-robed Fisherman
cuts Fish

from His skin.

A. Michele Leslie has written more than twenty plays, including one about a bus-ride that won 1st prize in the one-act play contest sponsored by Kalliope Magazine (Jacksonville, FL). This play was nominated for a Pushcart in 1993. Another play she wrote, Location Unknown, which treated schizophrenia during Victorian times, placed as Alternate in the Jerome in 1991. She has had about 7 plays produced in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area and has also published poetry, short stories, and essays and edited an international literary magazine (as a hobby) for about fifteen years.

She lives with her husband and two wonderful cats in Minnesota. She deeply enjoys meditation and in her spare time dabbles in reflexology, essential oils, and a variety of mystical issues. She is presently putting the finishing touches on two new full-length plays.

a grape is a berry – a poem by Jennifer Avignon

a grape is a berry

Are there holy grapes, is there holy ground, is anything here holy? – Annie Dillard

i’ve taken a lot of communion 
in a lot of traditions, watched my mother 
cut loaves into squares, or my aunts open
jugs of store-brand grape juice
for the blood of Christ. 
i notice the flouriness of pita, 
the way that wafers melt in my mouth, 
or the honey whole grain sweetness 
of the st. luke’s loaf. 
when i join a wine-drinking church, 
they ask me to keep them supplied, 
so i use my employee discount 
to pick up half a case at a time.
the vicar puts her hands on the bottles
that i carried in my backpack, 
next to my wallet and a carton of oat milk.
there is no moment i can see
when the holiness is added in
or set apart. holiness runs
alongside of the ordinary:
wine and coffee,
wafers and doughnuts.
whatever there is of holiness 
in communion is in the taking of it.

Jennifer Avignon (she/her) is a queer poet who lives in Seattle with her husband and lots of houseplants. She is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Seattle Pacific University. Her work appears in This Present Former Glory, Stepaway Magazine, and Beaver Magazine. https://www.jenniferavignon.com/

Morning Transport – poetry by Ethan Ashkin Stanton

Morning Transport
This time. I am sure.
You don’t. Exist. Random. Soup cans.
Crush. My toenails. The birds. Stagger to their. Time cards.
And punch. In red. She is refusing. To brush her. Teeth. Unexplained. Traffic. Jams clog. 
The arteries. This is a mere. Conglomeration. Of sound. Metaphors crack. In my cell.
Like old. Flower pots.
There is no. Such thing.
As a poem.
    my car skirts the open trench ducks
      the height limit sign flashes its readiness to merge 
                   on aerial pathways tons of steel climbing above the airport call
                    to mind pleasures of descent the compensations of bearing
                divergent angels 
        even magnetic fields migrate 
  unmasking the flayed terror of radiation 
  forty thousand years ago
        our ancestors were trapped in caves and invented art.
           the little bonfires of my cells bloom red 
              with their refining flame
                    peel this poem like a burning orange all
                  points on the surface 
                 are equidistant from the center   
             everything is glowing         no
           every         thing 
glowing   the poem 
  is a bird the bird of my cells
      singing to you sing yourself 
             into me my mirror twin, mouth
           bearer of galaxies 
     open your laughing eyes again
 my butter child
and swallow me

Ethan Ashkin Stanton is a husband, father, teacher, and poet in San Jose, California. He is a Jewish pantheist with a side of skepticism. His work often explores the interpenetration of the sacred and the mundane. Every answer brings a new question, and that is how it should be.

Rosary – a poem by Kiriti Sengupta



Pearls find a way
to their oyster. 


Keeping count for a one-off. 


Does clairvoyance
call for an add-on?

Can names lead me
to the anonymous?

Beads are tags,
they accept duality.  

Kiriti Sengupta, the 2018 Rabindranath Tagore Literary Prize recipient, is a poet, editor, translator, and publisher. He has authored eleven books of poetry and prose, two books of translation, and edited eight anthologies. Sengupta’s poems have been published in The CommonThe Florida Review Online (Aquifer), OtolithsHeadway QuarterlyMoria OnlineAmethyst ReviewMadras CourierInk Sweat and TearsThe LakeMad SwirlOutlook Magazine, among other places. He is the founder and chief editor of the Ethos Literary Journal. Sengupta lives in New Delhi. More at www.kiritisengupta.com

Relic – a story by Rina Palumbo


“Enzo, did you get the stuff?” Pietro whispered to his classmate as they sat at their desks. Enzo, eyes on the teacher, nodded once and then, never looking at his friend,  made a show of examining the cover of his textbook.

Father Marco rapped his ruler on his desk, and, immediately, silence filled the room. He stood, exploring the sea of faces before him, scanning for the slightest sign of insolence. His eyes rested on Pietro, and Enzo felt his friend stiffen.

“Pietro, is there something you need to share with the class?” Father Marco said as he made his way down the aisle.

“No, Father,” said his friend. Enzo felt the resignation fall on Pietro’s shoulders, weighing them down as he tried to sit even straighter, eyes lowered, his thin arms and roughened hands in front of him.

Slam. The ruler crashed down on Pietro’s desk, the impact blowing back strands of his unkempt hair and the wooden stick barely missing the smallest finger of his left hand.

“You are excused – the Directore  can listen to whatever you so urgently needed to say.”

Pietro rose from his desk and walked, with a slow, steady step, to the classroom door. He hesitated before turning the handle, then, seeming to change his mind,  pulled it open and stepped outside in one movement.

“The rest of you, take out your pencils; the math test begins now,” Father Marco said, walking to his desk and picking up a pile of papers perched on its corner. He methodically gave each child in the front of each row a stack of test papers, and each child took one and passed the rest behind them.

“You may begin,” said Father Marco as he sat down in the chair behind his desk, arms folded.

The day crawled forward. Enzo didn’t see Pietro again until the dismissal bell. Coming out of the Directore’s office, Pietro joined his friend in the short walk to the busses.

Pietro was silent as Enzo told him about the day. Father Marco had strapped Graziella and Donna for giggling; he and some boys had played football in the yard. Then Enzo stopped and asked him, “Are you sure we should do this?” 

Immediately, Pietro hushed him.

“Don’t talk about it -we don’t know who might be listening.”  With that, Pietro and Enzo walked onto the waiting school bus and,  taking their usual spots at the back, remained silent – Enzo staring out of the window and Pietro biting his fingernails. Enzo looked at his friend and wanted to say something, but the words all felt wrong. Pietro, more used to silence, turned his back and walked home. It was a long ride, and the boys were among the last to be dropped off.

Enzo headed toward his house, passing St. Timothy’s Church, the town cemetery on one side, and the rectory set back on the opposite side. Enzo couldn’t help but look up at the steeple, the bell silent now, and then watch the tiny birds that flitted in and out between the nests carefully constructed in the bell tower and the trees that encroached on the church property from behind. He stood for a few minutes and then walked home more slowly, thinking about how precarious was life for those small animals until the moment when they could fly away.

It was time. Enzo had watched the hands-on his bedside clock as they moved toward the appointed hour; the ticking had seemed to get louder as the night wore on. He got up slowly and silently. Having slept in his clothes, he walked to the back door, slipped into his shoes, grabbed his backpack, and ran out.

Pietro was waiting for him. The small rectangular window to the storage room under the stairway of the Church’s north entrance was narrow, but Pietro had determined that they would be able to slip inside. He pulled the casement out, pushed the screen in, and slid down.

“OK, come on in,” he whispered. Enzo copied his friend, letting the casement close behind him.

He landed on his feet, the impact of the drop vibrating along his spine and jolting his head forward. Unzipping his backpack, he took out two flashlights,  turned one on, and handed the other to Pietro.

“Let’s go,” Pietro said as he snapped on the flashlight, the beam changing his always pale face into a grey mask. The door opened quickly and led straight to a limited run of stairs covered with an almost threadbare carpet. Enzo followed his friend up the stairs, his flashlight held close to his body.

Pietro pushed open the door and directed his beam into the nave, where the rows of pews were lined up and waiting, holding copies of the New Testament in expectation.

For quite a few years, Pietro’s mother had been one of the women who volunteered to clean the Church. From his mother, Pietro had learned the reliquary containing a tiny bit of cloth from St. Timothy’s robe was easily accessible through a small latched door at the back of the altar. 

When the relic had been installed at St. Timothy’s, the small shop that sold Catholic paraphernalia had replicas of the reliquary proudly displayed in the window. Enzo’s mother, along with almost everyone else’s mothers, had brought one, and it stood, a golden star on top of a stem with St. Timothy’s picture attached to it. Most houses in the parish had it displayed, either in the living or dining room, alongside images of deceased relatives, candles, and flowers.    

The authentic holy relic, the only one with a piece of sacred cloth within the star, had been installed on the altar with a long ceremony led by the Archbishop. It had been a massive draw for supplicants at first, but, over time, the crowds eventually began to thin out again, swelling only with the holidays. And here it was as it always had been, in a small opening under the altar, partially visible through tinted glass.

Enzo knew that a small piece of St. Timothy’s robe was in the center of the star, but he had heard his grandmother on more than one occasion whispering that it had a drop of holy blood on it. When she uttered these words, she always kissed the gold St. Timothy’s medallion, which hung on a necklace Enzo had never seen her remove.

The Church they now walked into was a dark echo of the night outside, except for a small light in the vestibule and some votives still flickering in the memorial area. The twin beams of chemical light harshly lit and flooded the altar. Their footfalls were muffled by the heavy, if faded carpet, and the silence felt as oppressive as the darkness. St. Timothy himself seemed to complete the silence with his closed lips and blank eyes in a sizeable gilded portrait in the apse.

Pietro knelt down in the back of the altar and found the little hinged door just as his mother had told him. He pushed it forward and removed the relic, handing it over to Enzo, who was surprised at how heavy it felt. Pietro took out his mother’s replica from his backpack and placed it on the altar, the dark wine-colored spot against the faded velvet telling him exactly how it should be positioned. He stood up, and Enzo handed him the actual relic. Pietro, thinking a moment,  wrapped it up in his handkerchief before putting it in his backpack. Enzo felt lost and empty at that moment and wanted to say something, but, once again, his words failed.

So, wordlessly, they retraced their steps to the storage room, and Enzo, always the stronger one, gave his friend a boost up to the window. He handed up the screen and then pulled himself up and through. Flashlights off, Enzo put them in his pack and started walking home. He stopped for a moment when he heard his friend running through the woods, taking a shortcut home,  his fast, steady rhythm gradually swallowed up by the silence of the night.

Suddenly Enzo felt the weight of that deep night, like the shadows and silences within the Church threatening to pull him under. He was afraid in a way he had never been before and started running home. Out of breath, he snuck through the door and, as quietly as possible, hurried into the bathroom, exchanged his clothes for the pajamas he had hidden in the hamper,  and,  flushing the toilet for good measure,  went into his room and tried to sleep.

Pietro was absent from school the next day. Not an unusual occurrence, he often had to miss school to help out at the family’s small grocery store. Enzo did not see his friend until Sunday when he was an altar boy serving Mass with Father Marco. He watched Pietro as much as possible as he went through motions he, as an altar boy, had gone through on Sundays past. But, it was hard for Enzo not to stare at the small window framing the relic. He expected something to be different, the falseness to be realized, something to break, anything that would mark the difference between what had been and what was there. Even when he went up for Communion, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, nothing happened, a simple fact that disappointed him.

Afterward, outside the Church, the small group of attendees formed and reformed into smaller and bigger groups, going back and forth between adults and children. Father Marco, a fixed point,  stood to the side with a smile that, as always,  never seemed to reach his eyes. Enzo moved away to stand in his usual spot behind the Church, where he could watch the birds in the bell tower. Pietro joined him a short time after. They walked into the forest and sat down, their backs against an old maple tree.

“How is your sister, Pietro?” said Enzo taking his eyes off the flitting birds to look at the profile of his friend, a face he felt he no longer knew as well.

 “Better, I think. It’s hard to tell. She gets better then worse, then better again.”

“Maybe it takes time,”  he sighed. “I don’t know how it’s all supposed to work. In the stories they tell us, it seems like miracles happen right away, but maybe sometimes it takes time. I just don’t know.” Pietro said as he stood up.

Enzo stood as well. “Why don’t you come over for lunch – my mother and grandmother made lots of food, there will be people you know, my aunts, uncles, cousins. You could eat with us and then maybe play football.”

“Sure, let’s go,” he said,  running ahead of Enzo.

They raced all the way to Enzo’s house. Entering the front door, Enzo started leading his friend toward his room. Pietro stopped for a moment in the living room and looked at the replica of the holy relic on the lace-covered side table. It looked like he wanted to pick it up, but as soon as his hand went forward, Pietro retracted it. He turned to see Enzo watching him, and Enzo saw something in his eyes that reminded him of the profound silence that had enveloped them that night in the Church.

“Let’s go,” said Enzo to his friend. They spent the afternoon together, eating and playing, running in and out of the house, always trying to fly a little bit further away each time.

Rina Palumbo came to writing after a career in college teaching and has published work in Survivor Lit, Beach Reads, and local magazines and journals. She is currently working on a novel and has two other long-form works in progress, and continuing to write short-form fiction, creative non-fiction, and prose poetry.

Sacrament – a poem by Kaitlyn Newbery


Lying on the cold shore,
I wrap my arms around my knees,
curling my shell of a self
into a conch:
lips press to heart
asking if the One who hears the
cries of all even listens.
Pleas reverberate through
my core, returning to me unheard. 
Born of the brokenness of healing,
My bitterness gives way to apathy
from the famine rations cannot rectify.
This starvation for salvation!
Manna! Provider!
Is the One who feeds the sparrows out of crumbs?
My essence from ashes--
must this structure of sand scatter simply by a
gentle breeze?
I shiver from the mid-winter wind beginning to blow
out of the depths of some Divine Lung.
Is the One who charged dust full
of life to destroy me with His exhale?
Yet I beg for those currents
to disperse this shell
and peacefully float away—
float on the winds of sacrament.

Kaitlyn Newbery is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling. Her works have recently been published by Agape Review. 

The arenaceous facet of totality/entity – a poem by V.S. Rakenduvadhana

The arenaceous facet of totality/entity

The sands of stochasticity speckle the ambits of my hands.
Like torrents, the sands bloom in the terra of Pneuma;
They fill the floor, in petaline mounds.

The sands are the sea. 
The horizon splinters mitotically,
Into each granule of the sand.
Yet each grain bears a different face.

Many days, I lie motionless upon the sands.
Aphids and millipedes scuttle upon the sands.
Many days crawl along the ridge of my sentience, like a millipede, and upon                                                                                                                                                                                                     the sands.
(Or perhaps, each of those days trudges like a leg of the millipede;
 Dangerously similar to the rest of the herd of legs; upon the sands.)

Many days, my love and I, build temples with the sands.
We borrow and build; and by sunset, we return the temples to the sands.
(Or perhaps, each day, the sands pour the temples into us; 
And by sunset, return the temples to granularity.)

Thelema is a curl etched upon the sands.
Thelema speckles the sands like the sun.
Thelema is a shadow of the grains.

Many days, I sit and count the sands.
Many days, I watch how they can rain, and how they can rise.
Many days I weep at the mounds of gargantuanness.
Many days, I am a crescent waning to the grains of minusculity.
(Or perhaps, each day, the sands count me, and watch the torrential murmur of my veins; 
And how the rise and fall of my thorax ordain the waning and waxing of the horizon,
In my every negligibility and ampleness.)

The sands are fictile flowers
That construct our fractality;
And we are the granules 
That define their infinitude.

The sands of stochasticity surge from my pupils;
They sit imperturbably, with crossed limbs, like ascetics,
Within my cephalic vortices and cortices.

 χάος (Cháos) is hoisted upon the sands—
 Entropy rings with the sound of O(h)m (Ω)—
The snake shaped like a Markovian chain, bit its tail—

The snake exuviates, and its skin is sand.


Authors note: Philosophical concepts in the poem
Pneuma: in Stoic thought) the vital spirit, soul, or creative force of a person.
Thelema: The word thelema is the English transliteration of the Koine Greek noun θέλημα (pronounced [θelima]), "will," from the verb θέλω (thélō): "to will, wish, want or purpose."

V.S. Rakenduvadhana is an Indian writer, poet, visual artist, and filmmaker based in Helsinki. Her diurnal energies are also devoted to her work as a neuroscientist. She has had a lifelong nocturnal affair with philosophy, music, and art in its many forms. Her works are now published/emerging in various literary magazines including The Vital Sparks, The Abstract Elephant, In Parentheses, Camas, and Rigorous; while she works on her first novella. Website: www.rakenduvadhana.com   

Gospel of Magdalene – a poem by Letitia Jiju

Gospel of Magdalene

God, quilt me in
winnowing sea-limbs.

	Under this greening 
	thicket of touch. 

Want is syllabled;
it shuns all language

	but whirling noons
	in the drawly moon-

mouth that wishbone us.
God, kilt me unto you

	as night pleats
	into frilled wait.

Let me rake and rake
the ruddy earth to myself.

	Lodge me somewhere
		in its hunger.

Letitia Jiju is an engineer and finance professional who has a penchant for exploring and retelling the divine and the mythological. Her poems have appeared/are forthcoming in Zero Readers, The Daily Drunk, Moist Poetry Journal, Acropolis Journal and Emirates Literature Festival. She serves as Poetry Editor at Mag 20/20. You can find her on Twitter/Instagram @eaturlettuce.