Amethyst Review

Approaching Salisbury Mills the Train Blows Its Whistle;
People Mind the Stop-Gap Before Rushing to a Seat

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.
“Closing Time”—Semisonic

I shiver the breeze of opening doors,
against the onward steps

scurrying for seats facing forward or backward
through swaying cars & narrow aisles.

This is where I board.

On this spring-like morning, I sit backward,
the air cool & a crack of sunrise burning
through frosted windows, brightening

sleepy heads & towns
seeking a city that never sleeps.

The train moves until it’s suspended
atop the Moodna Viaduct, forming a line inscribed in the sky
exposed to the same forces
of gravity & velocity marking the tides.

I succumb to the light, squeeze my eyes shut,
focus on the rails with quiet anticipation—

moments of the deceleration,
movements taking me to the next stop—

(fearing no speed, no derailments
or the beautiful pieces of me tossed from the car.)

Gaining momentum, I listen to learn
of what’s ahead,

a soft, gentle pounding inside hovering above
what must be heard,
clanging, arrivals, departures, measured miles (knowing)—

there’s a vividness dancing this sunrise,
the emerging destination.

Here is where I visit.
Here is where I wish to stay—

sometimes arriving sitting backward
though always moving forward.

 

Ariana D. Den Bleyker is a Pittsburgh native currently residing in New York’s Hudson Valley where she is a wife and mother of two. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family and every once in a while sleeps. She is the author of three collections, seventeen chapbooks, three crime novellas, a novelette, and an experimental memoir.

Now and at the hour

The story begins with my sister in law Sheila, who was married to my brother Tom. Now I loved Tom but he was not the nicest man in the world. He’d never been. Even when we were younger and innocent, Tom always looked out for himself. He died in 1982, killed in the line of duty, which might make you think he was a hero but at the time of his death he was under investigation for police brutality. The papers screamed about the miscarriage of justice. Tom was hard, and he was mean to Sheila, even in the early days of their marriage, not hitting mean but yelling mean. When he died it was quite the controversy, but his name has receded over time. My brother’s son, Tommy, was never the same after the scandal. He was a teenager then. He dropped out of high school, disappeared for years. When he came back he was sick–hepatitis, cirrhosis. He stayed with Sheila and she was just figuring out what to do with him when he got sick and died. This is a couple of years back but it all goes to show that Sheila didn’t have it nice.

Being sisters- in-law, she and I pal-ed around some. We were the seat fillers at various functions (Tom’s and my sister, Mags–she had a boatload of kids). We could be counted on to buy something at Tupperware parties, to spring for a raffle ticket, to crochet a blanket for the baby shower. Trouble was, when those babies grew up, we didn’t really see them. Mags was long dead; her kids lost to the suburbs. Just a few of us are left in the old neighborhood. Sheila lived two blocks over and worked at the archdiocese, retiring before Cardinal Bernadin died. She had friends from church, and a couple of gals from high school she played cards with, but Sheila’s social life was never go-go-go. After my brother died, she didn’t date. I never heard her talk about sex. Geez, she didn’t even wear shorts.

She endured so much pain with such fortitude that she must have been steel at the core. On the outside, she was soft, a matron of the ruffled and powdered variety. Her sweet demeanor was probably even more noticeable next to my sterner disposition. I’m aware that my nickname is “Lill the Pill.” Earlier in my life, when I cared more what others thought of me, the nickname hurt. Now, in what surely are my last years, I don’t resent it. It’s probably this orderly nature that keeps me living quite well alone, able to take care of myself.

In 1989 Sheila had a bout of colon cancer. They took out part of her intestine. It recurred in the ‘90s and they operated again. When it came back this last time, they couldn’t do surgery and she had other treatments for a while but eventually it got her. She was at St. Anthony’s Hospital. After a while the stream of visitors, never big to begin with, became a trickle, with the biggest drip being me. Toward the end I came twice a day.

I’d straighten the get-well cards, open the curtains, make sure the water was cold. I’d turn on the TV and we’d watch The Price Is Right, because Sheila was crazy about Bob Barker. We’d talk about the weather, the family, the neighborhood. Toward the end she was quieter, didn’t care too much if the TV was on.

“I’m here She,” I’d tell her, “do you need anything?”

More often than not she wouldn’t, and I’d sit with her and read my book.

One morning I got there and thought I’d turn on Bob even though Sheila couldn’t really follow it. I went to the little swing table by her bed to get the remote and she opened her eyes, “He came to me last night,” she said.

I forgot about the television. “Who?’

“The Lord Jesus.” She bowed her head,

“God came to you?” I bowed my head too, “I’m glad for you Sheila.” I guessed the end was near.

“Not God,” she said, “Jesus.” When she nodded again I realized she was indicating the crucifix on the opposite wall. She lifted a finger, the nails ragged and the polish worn. I wondered should I bring my manicure kit next time. “Jesus came to me Lill.”

I smiled, folded over the cover and sheet to neaten them.

“Off that cross and over to me.”

“What?” I stopped fussing.

She motioned I should put my ear to her mouth, “He was gentle.”

I stood up, but she wanted to say more so I bent down again, “Lill, He stood where you are now.” She sounded stronger than I heard her in a week. I looked at the crucifix: Our Lord bowing his thorn-crowned head in pain and sacrifice. His feet were particularly poignant; blood weeping from the delicate bones. Her hand grasped my arm. She nodded: yes, it was true.

I stood there quietly, hoping it would pass. After a minute, she continued, “Right there. His hands warm and soft. He touched my cheek,” she put her fingers there as if she could still feel the spot, “put his fingers on my lips and I no longer thirsted.” She let her fingers stay on her mouth.

I didn’t want to hear more. I looked at her eyes; they were clear, not glassy. I put the back of my hand to her forehead. She didn’t seem warm, but she had to be delirious.

On the bus home I considered what I’d heard about dying. I’d been told once that men die with evidence of sexual arousal but I didn’t know if that was true. I’d also heard that it’s likely we’ll leave a mess in our pants. This seemed plausible. And everyone has heard about the white light that engulfs and beckons. That made Jesus’s appearance to a faithful servant not so far-fetched. By the time I got to my stop I guessed it was a good thing Sheila had found such peace.

I went back later that day. The afternoon sun was streaming in the window in Sheila’s room so my first order of business was to close the curtains. I pulled on the fabric and the grommets skittered across the rod. “Hey She,” I turned to the bed.

“He was here again,” she said.

I went to the bed, checked to see how full the little pitcher of water was. I looked down on her face, which probably mirrored my own. Her skin was wrinkled and thin as worn cloth. “Lill,” she said, “he came again.”

I smiled at her, realizing then I had expected this, knew from the way she spoke previously that this was not some fleeting idea. “Right here.”

“Here?” I asked just to make sure.

“Right here,” she said, “and he filled me with his spirit.”

“I don’t know if I understand.”

“He completed me.”

I poured her old glass of water into the azalea on the window, threw out the plastic cup, and poured a fresh one. “In case you need it,” I said.

“There’s the stained glass at church,” she said, “the Sacred Heart of Jesus.”

“In the front?”

“Think of that heart,” she said. I could picture it. “The red.”

“Ruby red,” I said.

“That came over me, that red was all around.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had a lot of questions but I could not ask. If this were the end of Sheila, would it be nice to press her? Did I want to hear her answer?

I tucked in the sheets at the foot of her bed. “Need anything?”

“I’m set,” she said and drifted off.

I sat in the leatherette chair off to the side, listened to her breathing, looked at the crucifix on the wall. The curtains eclipsed the light but when I closed my eyes I could see the window’s outline, like an x-ray image, only it was dark red. When the nurse came in, I was startled awake. Sheila kept sleeping so I left.

At the bus stop I prayed the Hail Mary. When I took my seat by the driver I thought of the stained glass window—Jesus in his robes of pale blue and white, the golden flames, the heart in all its ruby anatomy, the crown of thorns piercing, and His fingers at the edge of the wound.

The prayer beneath: “O Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in Thee.” I said these words in my head.

I stopped at the store to get a chop and a spud. Maybe it was the tabloids newspapers lining the checkout that made me think that maybe a man, a janitor or orderly, was going into Sheila’s room. The thought disturbed me.

At home I don’t know how long I chewed things over before I called the hospital and talked to the floor nurse.

Her name was Angela Petit.

“My sister in law,” I started slowly, “in Room 206 said something about a man in her room.”

“Well, she hasn’t had many visitors besides you,” she said, “not any really.”

“I don’t mean a visitor.” I didn’t know how to phrase it.

“No one else has been in her room.”

“An orderly or janitor?”

“No,” she assured, “and never without our knowledge. The nuns here, they run a tight ship.”

There was a moment of silence as we both considered what to say. “And you know,” her voice took on a quieter tone, “at the end, people can say things out of the ordinary.”

It was true. Sheila was serene not disturbed. I thought of what she said–how He filled her with His spirit, completed her; how she thirsted no more; how the red enveloped her; how Jesus touched her.

I considered Sheila’s life; for years she hadn’t had anyone. Who is to say what Jesus would do? He was all things to all people, our Savior, our Shepherd.

When I visited the next day, room 206 was empty. I was steeling myself for bad news when the nurse said Sheila had been moved. She was down the hall.

I popped my head in, “Sheila?”

The woman on the bed was a lot frailer than the one I’d left yesterday.

“Hi hon,” I said. Her white hair was flyaway. I tried to pat it down. Spittle had dried at the corners of her mouth. “You want some water?”

She moved her lips in what she probably thought was a smile. “You,” she said

“How are you? What can I get you—are you tilted up enough?”

She pressed the control to raise the head of her bed.

“I’ll give you some water,” I held the straw to her lips.

“When did they move you?”

“Last night,” she said and motioned me to come closer.

“Jesus came. Filled me with His Glory.”

“Jesus was with you last night?” I smiled as if this were a regular conversation. “I’m glad for you Sheila. I am. I believe He holds you in His hands.”

“We both have wounded hearts.”

Soon one of her roommates was being admitted and the room grew crowded. Sheila slept through the commotion but I felt like an interloper, so I left.

I looked out the bus window the whole ride home. I guess I knew even then I wouldn’t see Sheila again.

At her funeral, a pittance of mourners filled the first row and there weren’t enough pallbearers. The eulogy was by the young priest who never knew Sheila except for when he administered Last Rites. I couldn’t help but stare at the crucifix over the altar, Jesus aggrieved and beseeching. Jesus who needed our love. And we His.

After Communion, my sight went to the stained glass window, the Sacred Heart of Jesus, so red you could practically drown in it. Oh Sheila.

 

Trained as a journalist, Ellen Wade Beals writes poetry and prose. Her work has appeared in literary magazines, in anthologies and on the web. Her poem “Between the sheets” appears in the textbook Everything’s a Text (Pearson 2010). She is editor and publisher of Solace in So Many Words (Weighed Words LLC). Her website is: www.solaceinabook.com.

It’s Simple

When the world is unforgiving,
when it tears you
……into the ground
..like a drilling rig,

Things of green, our constant mother, will be there—
that poplar tree, that thought of a roiling river, that little wren
……..on back of a chair, flitting here,
….there,

.as you sit outside a cafe, alone:

……………………….watch.

 

Ahrend Torrey is a creative writing graduate from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. When he is not writing, or working in New Orleans, he enjoys the simpler things in life, like walking around City Park with his husband, Jonathan, and their two rat terriers Dichter and Dova. Forthcoming this year, his collection of poems Small Blue Harbor will be available from The Poetry Box Select imprint.

The Hollow

This path that skirts
the cold cluttered shed,
surly-fronted with tasselled
dock and stinging nettle,
slips down into the hollow
where mire and winter’s dregs
seep and settle
in greasy black cakes.

Thick sprouting elder
and brambles throw out limbs
and foot-catching loops along the track.
Bees lose their way
as frothing blossom sinks low;
lazy beetles rummage,
drowsy-drunk on pollen
smelling more of mould than May.

Sombre sagging leaves on leaves,
airless branches, heirless dry
twig-ends stretch out to spike
heads with downcast eyes.
One abreast is all
but all are alone
stepping through
on black thorned thoughts.

Press on. Press on
up the rise. And up.
Light fractures the thick curtain
and polishes the leaves.
Out onto the grassland, looking
round, trees tinselled in the sun,
the hollow softly beards
the quiet face of the down.

After studying French, Jane Angué now lives and works in France, teaching English Language and Literature. She enjoys introducing her students to poetry. She writes in French and English, was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2018 and her work has recently appeared in incertain regard, Le Capital des Mots and Dawntreader.

 

ONION

The world as places and sounds, a visual music to paint. Hidden layers are stories to be told, ur-texts and brief asides, all referencing each other. It is not a linear progression, our futures do not unfold; we make them, revise them, retell them, practice making others laugh. Then move away and die.

Gaps in the curtain, wing and a prayer, everybody knows

 

© Rupert M Loydell

 

Rupert Loydell is a writer, editor and abstract artist. His many books of poetry include Dear Mary (Shearsman, 2017) and The Return of the Man Who Has Everything (Shearsman 2015); and he has edited anthologies such as Yesterday’s Music Today (co-edited with Mike Ferguson, Knives Forks and Spoons Press 2014), and Troubles Swapped for Something Fresh: manifestos and unmanifestos (Salt, 2010).

Cracked Heart

I am meant to be here in the fissure of our
global heart, my own piece of it
still pumping though it could stop at
any moment and I’d just fold into this cycle
of devolving evolution, into
whatever it is that arises
out of what is
no more.
I am meant to weep in stunning grief
at the loss of animal life, habitat,
mounting disappearance we choose not
to stem; the inevitable
apocalypse which may have
already begun.
I am meant to listen through the
clamor of catastrophe, chaos, confounded
despair,
to the loudest silence where eternity
waits and watches. The
lacunae between my
breaths and the hum of perception
Inside my cells
hint at the larger song in which
we are sung.
I am meant to flounder in the darkness,
foraging for light like a
a hungry
bat, to then sip deeply and know
something more than
what is seen.
I am meant to stagger in the heartbreak
and bleed sorrow while I
continue to believe
in beauty.

 

Jenny has lived in the Pacific Northwest for 13 years having moved here from the New York metropolitan area with her family.   By day she is an international tax lawyer, but day and night, a poet, loving to write poems and share with anyone who will read them.  Her work has been in included as part of the yearly Bainbridge Island Poetry Corners celebration in which poems are posted on local storefronts, Ars Poetica, a juried pairing of poems with the work of local artists, several anthologies published by Diversion Press, two publications out of the Grief Dialogues project, “Just a Little More Time” and “Grief Dialogues, the book”, The Cascade Journal Vol. II, of the Washington Poets Association and others.

The Beata

The historian: I found
in my research into the records
of the inquisition
that in the beata’s room
sat a pot of marmalade,
along with bundles of herbs,
fragments of leaves, and
flowering plants. On her cell wall,
a small icon much like the one
in the beguinage’s chapel hung.

The beata: I was
once a candidate for sanctity,
though I am but a frail
and weak woman.
I told them I consumed
scents of blossom and incense.
Fragrant wood,
the breath of whispered intercessions.
Spice of holiness.
Yes, I made a tincture
for pain relief. This was
after my visions arrived. I saw her,
the Virgin, radiant in blue.
She waited at the bridge.
Rain had given way.
The earth and I were
both sated with her dazzling light.

The confessor: She told me
the herbs helped her to see.
My tongue clicked against
the remains of my teeth.
The world is full
of sinful and false
women. I refused her
absolution until she
denounced herself
before the holy tribunal.

The beata: I was
imprisoned in a crumbling cell.
They questioned me many times.
We women cooked the meals
and served them.
They questioned me many times
often in the morning
extracting my answers
the way barbers lance a boil.
Then they whipped me
in the city square.
Sentenced me to the exile
of seasickness and humid jungle.
But still I see the Virgin
among the flowers. I pray
for forgiveness so that
my own soul blossoms,
so that the bees bring
the pollen of her love.
I pray to be worthy of growth
like the Saint John’s wort
also transplanted here.

 

Ray Ball grew up in a house full of snakes. She is a history professor, Pushcart-nominated poet, and editor at Alaska Women Speak. Her first chapbook Tithe of Salt was recently published by Louisiana Literature Press, and she has recent publications in Coffin Bell, Moria, and UCity Review.

The Ethereal Divine

I stood atop a copper-colored cliff,
the rocks beneath me cantilevered,
forging for me a perch from which
I could shape the white cotton clouds
into celestial portals. The sky-tunnels
that spiraled forth from them
were formed from deep blue
lapis lazuli and spider-spun gold.
I gazed up at them.
I let my head fall back.
I closed my eyes
and felt the rich syrup of colors
melt on my upturned face.
This was the mask of my constant days,
collected and uncounted.

 

Cynthia Pitman is a retired high school English teacher. She began writing again in the summer of 2018 after a 30-year hiatus. She has since had poetry published in Amethyst Review, Vita Brevis, Leaves of Ink, Right Hand Pointing, Third Wednesday, and others. Her first book, The White Room: A Poetry Collection, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

The structure of

Let’s talk about
the structure of
peace.

Let’s establish
its scaffolding
galvanized

iron, of course,
wrapped in leaves of
gold and platinum.

The windows won’t be
windows at all, but
waterfalls to distort

the view of the violent
world around our construction.
And in the universe, the blown

brown-flecked seagulls and
the heron storm so blue you
lose sight of the flying

to the coming night.
Forget about structure.
What peace would

have structure anyway?
It is fly and fly and a sudden
collection of winter

moths brushed up from
a pile of wet November
leaves because they see

the florescence through
office windows. And so they
gather there, their luminous flux

frozen to the glass, reminiscent of
a touch so tender it makes you
shudder. Let’s call that flicker

of recognition, peace. As much
as the flicker of Saturday morning
sunlight through the maple fire

red, orange, yellow, gray branches
through the panes of glass to moss-light
your bare breast as it rises and falls

like poetry,
like chaos,
smooth.

 

Melissa J. Varnavas is a poet, journalist, and editor living in Beverly, Massachusetts. A graduate of the Solstice MFA program at Pine Manor College, her work has appeared in the literary journals in Oberon, End Times, Blast Furnace, Margie, The New Guard, and elsewhere.

Obstructed View

The brightest stars burn beyond my fence,
a world beyond the length of my arms.
Both my age and the weather are growing colder.
Still, there’s a local breeze on fig leaves,
a duet of birds, a dance of butterflies—
a wannabe paradise whose fruit
never falls beyond the chain link,
whose bountiful summers feel cold.

I could stay here in the peace that accepts,
watch the dying sun go down in steaming flames,
knowing while there are days left
that it will rise again in a familiar place.

Yet I dream of wings with streams of winter vapor,
dream my feathered arms fly warmly with them
to the far edge of starlight.

 

Robert S. King edits Good Works Review. His poems appear widely, including Chariton Review, Kenyon Review, Midwest Quarterly, and Southern Poetry Review. He has published eight poetry collections, most recently Diary of the Last Person on Earth (Sybaritic Press 2014) and Developing a Photograph of God (Glass Lyre Press, 2014).