Monthly Archives: March 2022

Our Velocity
At 2.73 Degrees Kelvin

...per che l’ombra sorrise e si ritrasse
Dante, Purgatorio II.83

You cannot see it moving
over the slick-rock face,
or in moonlight hear the way
the tousled cornsilk sighs.  

You cannot feel it lift 
the nape-hairs of your dream
but there it is beside you
always, the slow heat
of living, moving along
at precisely the velocity
of your downwind reach.

Looking backward
from the bleeding edge
of time, we must appear 
to be, relatively speaking,
smack at time’s dead center,
so swiftly swells this
tidal diastole, yet we
can only just approach
that always vanishing place
across a fast-diminishing,
a never-quite-closing,
distance.

At the middle of things,
I imagine a swift house,
a busy airport terminal, 
all motion, all polished granite,
steel and glass, and in its midst 
The Deity Herself perhaps,
a slender girl in a crisp
unwrinkled Burberry jacket
who doesn’t seem 
to recognize you 
as you approach, and when,
arms spread wide,
you offer the customary
embrace, she takes
a startled half-step back.

DB Jonas is an orchardist living in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of northern New Mexico. His work has appeared in Neologism, Consilience Journal, PoeticaMagazine and The Jewish Literary Journal, and is forthcoming in Tar River, Innisfree and The Deronda Review.

Cathedral Cats


I know a cathedral full of cats.
They romp in the choir loft,
piss in the pews, and hiss
ungodly hallelujahs
at the stained-glass saints.
I once saw a lonely puss
warm its arched body
against an altar boy’s ankles.
Startled a tabby in the sacristy,
found another in the confessional.
During mass you might see
a calico creep across the aisle
or curl serenely by 
the Virgin’s plaster majesty.
They’ve even been known 
to fornicate in the nave
and devour mice in the apse
right under the crucifix, 
as Christ watches all
with painted eyes, 
patient witness to our wildness.

Paul Jaskunas is the author of the novel Hidden (The Free Press, 2004), winner of the Friends of American Writers Award, and founding editor of Full Bleed, an annual art journal published by the Maryland Institute College of Art, where he teaches literature and writing. His work has been featured by a variety of publications, including The Cortland Review, Gargoyle, The New York Times, America, and The Museum of Americana.

The Magic Hour
 
The magic hour for photo seekers: late afternoon, as the low sun
presses its slanted light across the ridge, teasing the leaves,
layering rose and red against the hushed fields. My shaggy lawn
gleams velvet and lush in this moment; the elm’s branches
arch like the arms of a dancer, rising on hidden toes, closed eyes
tipped toward the warmth, body slim and muscled. The white iris
blushes and bends. Cool shadows stretch from cedar and oak,
from maple and elder, from ash and torn-open roses.
In the morning, there were lists and problems, plans; now
the magic hour dispels them. My human scraping, tiny
compared to this flood of transformation, this glow, this othering
which rinses even me; which washes even me; which for a long
hour of magic dissolves my shames to gratitude, tender and fragile
as long-legged crickets, leaping in the wide forgiving field.
 

Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont, with a mountain at her back and a river at her feet. She’s a published poet, novelist, historian, and memoirist, and shares her research and writing process at BethKanell.blogspot.com. 

Loosening the Bonds – Unhook the IV Drips and Let Me Be Full as the March Moon


i.
Full moon rose the night I died.
Last full moon of winter.
I rose with the Full Sap Moon 
	to lean down and feel its rising in maples.
I felt earthworms waken as the Worm Moon's beams 
	penetrated their underground sleep.
My friends the Nuns knew me in the Paschal Full Moon
	as I passed by.

ii.
Could such pain have been believed?
Sudden and crippling halt 
	of my labyrinth walk.
My voice doubled inward, and prayer 
	was a mandala
	 	of pleas for relief.

A simple tune-up at the hospital 
	became stronger music. 
Crescendo of pain so gripping, 
my blood pressure
failed. Tethered to fluids that floated me.

Cacophony of voices. So many people. Symphonic dissonance –
	so many trips rolling narrowly, rapidly through
	bright then dim lights clicks whistles and bells and buzzers.

And so the dawn. 
	So the dawn. 

Not to home. Voices whirled  
	Too dangerous. 	Too much travel	 too delicate. 
Too hard to manage. 	Too short a time. 
Too much internal wrapping, 		
		squeezing, 	smothering. 
Too much.

Surfing through words, beloved hand held mine always. 
Hers, single voice 
		of home, of heart.

Yes, time. 	Now, 
	time to unhook. 
Yes, Honey, yes. 
She answers my only question. 
Yes, this is it.




iii.
March is the season I walked woodland ponds at dusk 
	to hear calls of peepers in their puddles of spring rain. 
But this season of Hyla crucifer, my tiny totem, 
	is the end of my earthwalk. 
Finale of the tiny sprites' Magnificat is forest solitude.

iv.
Time is a process of being, of habit. Of making plans.
	And letting go is a process of becoming. 

The afternoon of my passing, the maple grove's tips 
	made a haze of red against the limitless blue.

I brushed my hand on each bowed head, 
	resting lightly on the white – like a cloud.

Catch the moon at Full.

Katherine Leonard grew up in the US and Italy. She lived in Massachusetts at the time of John F Kennedy’s assassination and experienced segregation and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination as a high school student in rural Texas. She has been a chemist, a geologist and an oncology nurse/nurse practitioner.

Names

There will
be days
when you
misplace
the name
that others
call you

even
the names
you called
yourself

and when
it happens,
it is no
use shouting
for them
like a dog
who is far
from home.

It is no use
posting
notices on
telephone poles

or offering
rewards
for their safe
return.

The recollected
self is a
timid thing.

She will
creep in
with her
honest names

whisper
lurking motives
in your ear

hint to you
your greatest
infatuations

only when
she knows
you are
listening;

only when
your heart
is soft enough
to be
dug open

in such
a way
as to
germinate
and ripen
into wisdom

to send
down roots
and wait to see
what other names
will sprout up 
and surprise 
us all.

Jenna K Funkhouser is a poet and author living in Portland, Oregon, always trying to cross through the membrane of the sacred surrounding us. Her poetry has recently been published by Geez Magazine, the Saint Katherine Review, Ekphrastic Review, and As It Ought To Be, among others.

                                             The Cat Whisperer

Vashon Island looks its best in early autumn—fading, yet still dark green, with crumbles of brown around the edges. Evergreens line both sides of the bumpy, curving main road, so dense that they block the clouds at higher elevations. The massive branches exert an invisible pressure that lowers my energy level. I’m often exhausted by mid-afternoon.

Another month remains until the wet season. I can feel precipitation straining at the end of its leash. The prodigious rain will start in mid-October and continue until early July. I savor the sun’s bittersweet warmth because I know it won’t last much longer.

Vashon has a central, commercial hub, where everyone buys what they need to get through the week. Fertilizer bags, slug bait, and shiny, overturned wheelbarrows clutter the supermarket entryway. Neighbors stroll through the aisles, talking animatedly about compost and left-wing politics. An enormous rack offers a selection of wool socks and long underwear. Even hippies need to be practical in the rain.

I drive towards home, after completing my shopping ritual. The usual haul of yogurt, orange juice, bread, fresh seafood, coffee, sparkling water, and a few other essentials. Two half-full paper bags jiggle in the back of my car. I can never remember to bring reusable ones. I live beside a rocky beach, at the bottom of a steep stairwell with 122 steps. If I forget something, I’m unlikely to go back to retrieve it.

I spot an elderly man at the side of the road. He holds a thumb in the air and clutches a cloth bag with his free hand. Two bulging sacks rest beside his feet. They look like they’ve been used many times.

Hitchhiking is common on the island because everyone knows their neighbors. I’ve never seen this guy before, however. He reminds me of an elf—diminutive in stature, with tattered Carhartt overalls and a wool cap pulled below his ears.

I swing over to the side of the road and cut the engine. The hitchhiker approaches my vehicle with a surprisingly forceful gait. He appears to be about eighty, with watery blue eyes and deep creases in his cheekbones. “Thanks for stopping. I’m glad I didn’t need to wait long. It’s getting dark, and I missed the last bus.”

The man hurls his bag into the passenger seat. Then he snatches the sacks from the roadside and tosses them into the back. “Are you going to the south end? That’s where I live.”

My rented house rests at the southernmost tip of the island. Pohl Road flanks the waterfront and offers an unobstructed view of Mt Rainier. It’s almost worth risking my life on that stairwell. 

I nod at the hitchhiker, and he settles into the passenger seat. At first, he stares at the highway, as if deep in thought. A couple of miles later, he becomes more animated. “My cats will be happy to see me. I’ve been gone for almost a week.”

“Are you sure they’re okay?” I somehow intuit that his pet situation is under control. Despite his advanced age, the hitchhiker exudes strength and competence. Still, a week is a long time for a brood of hungry cats.

“Sure. They’re used to my absences. I rent a room in Seattle and have another place here on the island. Each time I come home, I bring food for them. They never run out.”

Relieved, I return my attention to the highway. I pass familiar landmarks—the Minglement, site of the original Seattle’s Best Coffee roasting plant. The Country Store, with its hilarious signage offering classes in chicken maintenance to transplanted urbanites. The little town of Burton, with its overpriced grocery store and sweeping views of Puget Sound. 

I glance sideways at my companion and try to figure out his story. What possible reason could he have for renting a room in Seattle? The guy’s much too old to hold any sort of job. Perhaps he just enjoys the change of pace. He might even have a girlfriend in the city. Hopefully he doesn’t spend all his time alone.

The man notices my side-eye and smiles. “I taught martial arts for forty years. Retired a few years back. Now it’s just me and the cats. How about you?”

I’m not sure how to answer his question. My life seems permanently stalled, like the abandoned cars I see along the I-5 corridor. Despite my bucolic surroundings, I’m often depressed and anxious. My husband Russ makes the long ferry commute every morning from Vashon to his desk job in downtown Seattle. He doesn’t get home until 7:30. Meanwhile, I’m glued to my recliner, staring at the gorgeous view, trying to get up the energy to climb those steps. 

“My husband and I recently moved back to Washington after living in the Midwest for a few years,” I explain. “I’m not sure why. Probably just a midlife thing.”

The hitchhiker laughs. “Yeah. I remember that well.” Declining to elaborate, he goes back to staring out the window. The trees tower overhead like sentinels. It won’t be long until we reach the end of the island.

A couple of miles later, he points to a spot at the side of the road. “That’s where the bus lets me off.”  I glide to the shoulder and turn on my flashers. The hitchhiker hesitates, and then asks, “Could you take me all the way home? These bags are heavy.”

I can feel the gravitational pull of my house, inexorably sucking me towards my living room. The idea of spending a few more minutes in my car is almost more than I can bear. Still, I can’t say no to the poor man. I imagine him trudging down the road with his heavy cargo, while I recline in my comfortable armchair with a slab of carrot cake. I wouldn’t be able to stand myself if I did something so selfish.

“Of course I will. Just let me know where to turn.” My voice sounds exhausted, resigned. I inch back into the highway and accelerate. The sun has almost disappeared behind the grove of trees, and long shadows stretch across the asphalt. I don’t like to descend the steps to my house after sunset, even though the stairwell has sensors that turn on a series of lights. I’m always afraid something bad will happen and the lights will fail to illuminate.

The hitchhiker points at an opening on the left-hand side of the highway. It’s barely visible, surrounded by dense hemlocks and blackberry bushes. “Just a bit further,” he assures me.

The new road is narrow, covered with ruts that are half-full of murky rainwater. It appears to be flat, at least. Many of the island’s thoroughfares are steep and terrifying. They lead to shadowy destinations you can’t escape unless you’re fortunate enough to own a four-wheel drive. 

I proceed with exaggerated care, slowing each time my tires encounter a new rut. As the surface turns from gravel to dirt, my companion smiles. “Almost home. First thing I’m gonna do is feed my cats. I can hear them now.” He gives his bag a confident pat. “Got enough food here for an entire month.”

The road ends abruptly behind a massive clump of weeds. A shack sits on the righthand side, cobbled together from an odd assortment of weathered boards. Its moss-smeared windows look as though they haven’t been cleaned in years. Two bent metal stovepipes protrude from the roof, one on each side. Beside the door, a pile of firewood molders into the damp ground. 

The hitchhiker turns towards me. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” He peers through the car window with a hint of anxiety. “I don’t know where those damn cats are, though. They must be out foraging.”

As if on cue, a gray tabby pokes its nose around the edge of the porch. A second cat appears from behind a bush. The creatures move warily at first, but when they spot their owner, they break into a giddy run. Both cats look muscular and healthy, like they’re used to spending a lot of time outside. They’ve probably become experts at hunting for prey. After all, the feline species has only been domesticated for 10,000 years.

The man grabs his bags and descends from the car. Turning to face me, he extends a grubby hand for me to shake. His grip is firm and confident. I can feel his strength seeping into me like juice from a battery. “I’m Sean O’Toole. It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope we see each other again.”

I am taken aback by the mention of his name. In fourth grade, I was tormented by a bully named Sean O’Toole. He used to beat me up every day, while his cabal of friends stood around, jeering. Sean continued his ritual of abuse until I hit him in the face with a book during math class. He chased me home after school, but his friends were nowhere in sight, and I was able to outrun him. Sean never bothered me again.

The hitchhiker is much too old to be the same person who caused me so much pain. Still, the coincidence feels fortuitous, like I’m closing a wide circle that began decades ago. There must be a deeper reason for our ride together, but I can’t imagine what it is.

I grasp Sean’s hand and smile. He takes a couple of strides towards his house. Several more cats emerge from behind the trees and greet him with a chorus of yowls. Sean shakes one of his sacks at the group. His pets go into a frenzy, jumping and spinning in mid-air. Finally, all of them break into a gallop and charge towards the house, stumbling over each other in their haste.

My services are no longer needed. I turn my car around and head down the dirt road, away from the ecstatic reunion. Russ won’t be home for an hour, and my steep stairwell is already dark. Still, I don’t dread the descent. Sean has given me a surge of energy, so I know I can make it to the bottom without falling. 

For the first time in weeks, I look forward to an evening of isolation. I don’t even mind the prospect of another rain-drenched winter. These obstacles pale in comparison to my own, habitual inertia. I have finally figured out how to overcome gravity’s pull. Just don’t think about the descent.

Leah Mueller‘s latest chapbook, “Land of Eternal Thirst” (Dumpster Fire Press) was released in 2021. Her work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

Mason City


Joshua, requiescat


I strolled around the Lutheran Church an hour
while Jim sat in its garden with his cell,
connected to his meditation group.
July, a sultry day. I hugged the shade.
What story can afford to lack a shade?
A wooden cross, a tomb, a sacred hoop
are clappers in the hollow of a bell.
I couldn’t help but note the church’s tower,
like Notre-Dame’s, possessed another spire,
as though by Viollet-le-Duc, which pinned
the blue sky up so ecumenically
I had to squint. Then Jim signed off and we
went on, to mourn our uncle. All have sinned,
the parson said, soon echoed by the choir.

Dan Campion‘s poems have appeared previously in Amethyst Review and in Light, Poetry, Rolling Stone, and many other journals. He is the author of Peter De Vries and Surrealism (Bucknell University Press) and coeditor of Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song (Holy Cow! Press). Selections of his poems will be issued by the Ice Cube Press and the MadHat Press in 2022.

Free


I stroll up to the branching waterfall;
work done, I need fresh air and to be free.

It takes so long to find one’s second self, 
it seems, and there you are, a friend and free

of negatives, who tops me up on tap.
Your love’s an ancient waterfall, a free

resource of life that brings me to my senses,
always there, flows from the hills, the free

and purple-hearted mountains, deep in clouds,
where ponies, wilder creatures wander free.

I tumble in your love and, smiling, know
you’ve given me permission to be free.

Simon Fletcher is widely published and has performed across Britain and in Pakistan & Norway. He’s read his work on BBC Radio Shropshire & the BBC Asian Network. He runs poetry writing workshops in green spaces/ places and MCs the monthly online Virtual Voices event. For more go to: www.simonfletcherwriter.com

All True Believers 

“I rebuke you in the name of Jesus. I rebuke you in the name of Jesus,” Zelsie incanted as she lay in bed. She’d fallen asleep that night the same way she did every night — lying on her back with one hand down her pants while the other clutched her favorite stuffed animal. Zelsie didn’t fall asleep this way for the reason you might expect — she wouldn’t explore that sort of play until many years later, shortly after stumbling upon a box of romance novels her aunt kept hidden in the attic. No, Zelsie fell asleep this way because it’s the only way she could fall asleep without feeling like a corpse. She’d been to a few funerals, and she’d never seen someone buried with their hand shoved down their pants. 

Just as Zelsie had been falling asleep the same way every night for years, she’d been waking up the same way every night for years: terrified, and with the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Sometimes, Zelsie could even see the outline of a hooded figure sitting at the end of her bed. These episodes left Zelsie with an aching chest and sweat-soaked pajamas, but she always managed to fall asleep again long before dawn. Her nights had played out this way for as long as Zelsie could remember, cloaking even holiday evenings in dread, and that dread had only grown since last Sunday. 

Like she did most Sundays, Zelsie sat in a pew near the back with a friend while her aunt sat at the piano. Zelsie usually paid more attention to the comic strips her friend drew on the tithing envelopes than to the preacher himself, but last Sunday’s sermon grabbed Zelsie’s attention and held on tight. “All true believers will be tested with a demonic visitation,” the preacher said, prying Zelsie’s eyes from her friend’s comic strip for the first time that morning. 

All week, Zelsie wondered if the figure who sometimes sat at the end of her bed was actually a demon, and if he’d come back that night. She thought about him on Monday during her spelling test and ended up misspelling the word “anguish.” At recess the next day, she lost a race to a boy she’d always been able to outrun. The day after that, she burst into tears at the dinner table when she couldn’t stop picturing the figure’s hooded form. She thought of him throughout ballet class on Thursday and kept pliéing out of sync with the other dancers. When Friday finally came, she couldn’t even finish her lunch.  

Zelsie thought about the figure every single morning while she was feeding her cat, Pepper, and she thought about him every single night as well, especially when she’d awake — as if to the snap of invisible fingers — frozen with fear. She thought of him more often than not, and she told no one — as if describing his previous visits might summon him. 

Tonight was Saturday night, and he was back. When Zelsie awoke in the middle of the night, she didn’t just feel a presence — she spotted one at the foot of her bed. It’s why she’d been repeatedly whispering the phrase she’d learned at church — the one that was meant to banish evil spirits — but no matter how many times she repeated it, he just sat there. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t turn to look at Zelsie; he didn’t try to touch her face or grab her feet. He didn’t move at all. When Zelsie’s heartbeat slowed and her breaths evened out, she stopped incanting. Still, he didn’t move. I’ll close my eyes for just a second, she thought. When she opened them, it was morning. 

That Sunday’s comic strip featured a Harvard-educated opossum, and Zelsie re-read it twice before church ended. Zelsie and her aunt had a lunch of macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried okra, cornbread, and green beans, and Zelsie ate two helpings of everything. She even had room for banana pudding. Afterwards, she read two chapters of Charlotte’s Web before taking a walk in the woods with Pepper. Zelsie’s aunt drew her a bubble bath that evening, and the two of them watched The Wizard of Oz when Zelsie was finished. Zelsie thought about the figure less than she had in days, and when she did think of him, she thought only of how he didn’t respond to the phrase she’d learned at church. If it didn’t banish him, maybe he isn’t evil? 

He didn’t visit Zelsie that night or for several nights after, and while she still thought of him sometimes, those thoughts didn’t keep her from acing her quizzes. They didn’t mess with her timing during dance class or keep her from finishing her meals, either. The longer he stayed away, the more Zelsie hoped he would visit her again. 

When he did, she tried talking to the figure. After her heartbeat calmed and her breathing eased, she asked him his name. She asked him if he was her guardian angel. She asked him why he was cloaked in black if he was her guardian angel. She asked him why he never lowered his hood, and how he’d gotten into her room. She asked him if he could fly. But the figure simply sat at the foot of Zelsie’s bed. When he visited her a few nights later, Zelsie skipped the questions altogether. “Thank you for watching over me,” she whispered when she could speak. A few nights after that, she told him a funny story about Pepper; and a few nights later, she told him a funny story about her aunt. 

Within a month, Zelsie would simply acknowledge his presence the way she would a dog’s or a cat’s. She’d reach into the darkness hoping to feel his cloak — then, with one arm outstretched while the other cradled her favorite stuffed animal, she’d go back to sleep. 

Liz Enochs is a writer from southeast Missouri — more often than not, you’ll find her in the woods. website: https://www.elizabethenochs.com/.

The Choir


Fred was here and here was different,
a pause after collapsing on the staircase.
The indescribable things were waiting to be seen.
He heard the crying sound of the first tears.
His lips struggled over his teeth, a perfect set, 
a long-lost memory grown back.
Without a music sheet to hold his hands
he began to hum his uneasiness into a tune.

He saw his brother-in-law, shaking his head
of the aching of plans gone wrong.
He hummed Fred’s tune, as if he’d been practising
but he just couldn’t find the words
and the angel said you don’t need to know the words.

His other brother-in-law called out to them.
He had left behind a clogged up brain
for a mind as clear as menthol. 
Here was a sharp contrast. Happiness could hum too.

Fred’s wife sat down, tired from a year of suffering.
That moment had now passed. Her voice was weak
but she hummed as loudly as she could
and the angel said you don’t need to know the words.

His daughter thought she heard something and looked up.

His sister-in-law had dreamed she was sleeping
but she had worried herself awake.
She was humming for her daughter and her son.

His daughter picked up a pen and began to write.

His nephew was playing cards, collecting aces,
he said there were five, counting himself.
Nice eulogy cuz! I am myself again, he smiled.

His daughter kept on writing.

Another brother-in-law joined them.
He brought the sorry he had felt but could not say.
He hadn’t seen his niece for such a long time 
and he wondered what she was doing
and the angel said she is writing the words 
to a tune she believes she can hear. 


But, you don’t need to hear the music to know the song
and you don’t need to know the words to sing along.

Susan Wilson lives in East London and began writing poetry following the
death of her mother in 2017. Her poems have been published by Lucy Writers, Snakeskin, Runcible Spoon, Dreich, Areopagus, Streetcake, Rue Scribe and Amethyst Review. Her debut chapbook is
I Couldn’t Write to Save Her Life (Dreich, 2021).