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Index: Poetry & Fiction

Again, as if the wind bore you away…

Eduardo Moga: ‘My fingers take on the clumsiness instilled by fear; their breath is laboured, their nails pant in revolt. The silence solidifies, but floats upwards, light as air: propelled by the vast machinery of clouds and engines.’

Six prose poems.

Meg Pokraass: ‘There’s a good chance that eventually things will deteriorate to the point where you launch mopey tweets at one another, him tweeting coy pink hearts to your tweets and you regurgitating chartreuse hearts back to his.’

Torpedo Fair.

Antony Howell: ‘Wheels on poles there pledge
The broken to the crows.
All battle is for hearts and minds,
So make quite sure she knows
Her rape is being done
By one who murdered her son.’

Cambridge Market Place Calls to Action.

Andy Thompson: ‘Your way, our way, some history was made
Casual, determined, unstoppable
Apotheosis, metamorphosis,
The magic puff and reappear years later’

Old-Time Recipe.

Sandra Kolankiewicz: ‘Plant your feet as hard as you can. Climb and stomp
your efforts out in the sun, its light become
intravenous and making your calcium
as fixed as the ancient piles of oyster shells
on this recently claimed and gentrified coast.’

Three literary poems.

Nathaniel Tarn: ‘…perhaps a last hymn
can be sung to the mother of beauty:
she who is mother, daughter, bride
in the run of the earth’s ravines,
earth’s veins full of blood and water,
she who is earth, who can she be else?…’

Ice cream spoon in the office.

Fawzia Kane: ‘Mouse marks his Deafness with insouciance. He likes to play the bass. The low frequencies thump through his belly, and can penetrate brick walls. Mouse’s eyes are glacial blue, but will never see a glacier. He doesn’t like the idea of retreat.  Mouse saw his parents die though their bodies still moved.’

Some of her things.

John Matthias: ‘I WAS STANDING in the middle of a river. In waist high water and afraid that I would lose my footing and be swept downstream where the river is deep enough to drown in. What I had to do was difficult.’

Four poems.

J. Mark Smith: ‘They’ll sit in the dark on basement floors,
signallers in a dry signal-house.
Gibbon, reluctant to judge it a
decline, leaves his club.’

The Right Side of the Diamond.

Peter Knobler: ‘Matt was a stalwart in a continuing pickup game with a fifty-year history and a rotating roster of regulars on Fire Island, a barrier beach about a quarter-mile wide that lay a quick ferry ride due south of mainland Long Island. No cars were permitted on the Fire Island National Seashore; the major means of transportation was bicycle.’

From ‘Ricochet’.

Lila Matsumoto: ‘There is a woman I am familiar with from childhood. She wears her hair in a bun. She is wearing clothes that are allowed to get soiled, because no doubt she is the cook of the household, and the cleaner too. I see her in the house, late at night. She is sitting on the ground; her back is turned….’

‘Something’ and two more prose poems.

Mélisande Fitzsimons: ‘Pain steals dreams and memories. Feathers make me thirsty, and I want to lick the puddle the prince left behind after the storm tonight. In the silence of sleep, everything becomes sacred, but there is nothing white about the night.’

Messages of Bewilderment.

Tom Lowenstein: ‘But I’m pure and whole, aren’t I,
she submitted with childlike sincerity,
nor do I house material of any nature in my subconscious.’

‘The Love of Women’…

Atar Hadari: ‘And your daughters run between clouds
gathering leaves like plums
and make a chariot to ride to your
bed
with the horse you’ll see one
morning through closed blinds.’

What Clings: Three prose poems.

Mikki Aronoff: You feel the press of his spindly arms, the carved bone buttons on his woolly jacket, his pocket watch.’