Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems
Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems
Tee Iseminger
Construction
& other poems
Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems
Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems
Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems
Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems
Daniel Stewart
January
& other poems
John Glowney
Cigarettes
& other poems
Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems
Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems
Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems
David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems
Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems
Rande Mack
rat
& other poems
J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems
Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems
James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems
Kelsey Charles
Autobiography
& other poems
Therese L. Broderick
Polly
& other poems
Lane Falcon
Touch
& other poems
Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems
Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems
David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems
Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems
Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems
Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems
David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems
Helen R. Peterson
Ablaut
& other poems
The Man Who Wished He Was Lego
His hands would be yellow
and forever curved
into a semi-square “C.”
Designed only for quick
and easy snapping
of pieces meant
to fit. His shoes
would be the same color
as his pants with no zips
or buttons, no pockets
for slipping in notes
that could be shredded
in the wash. He would need
not worry about the shape
of his head, or haircuts
and thoughts for that matter.
And best of all, his chest
would be stiff and hollow,
far too small
for a heart.
Do Millipedes Bleed?
The bathroom sink reflects
a clinical glare
from the white light bulb.
Close to my toothbrush,
a dark shape
thicker than a string,
curved upward at one end.
My hand quickly tries
to reach for something,
a comb, a slipper,
anything to flick it away,
perhaps crush it.
Then up close I see
it is hunched over
a drop of water,
drinking. Tiny feelers
waving back and forth
in a gentle rhythm,
minute legs, thin
as the hair between
my knuckles,
quivering.
The Photograph
Stripped of leaves from the planet’s change
of angle (scientific calculations can predict
the end of such a cycle), the limbs of this tree
appear no more than frail, black streaks
against the grey sky. But for the birds.
With folded wings they have chosen to adorn
the branches. It is not the first tree
to be so starkly dressed. A friend on the other side
of the world shared a photograph that looked
nearly the same as what is now before
my window. Echoes of the same rhythm,
only composition and lighting differ.
The image remains longer in the retina, a memory
reinforced, perhaps more intensely remembered?
Would any photograph chanced upon,
then lingered over, become just as embedded
in the mind? That it, too, burns? Here, with the click
of a mouse, I browse: a photograph of two soldiers.
One on the ground, the other holding a rifle.
Afghanistan’s range of mountains never looked
so violated. The grass that clings to the jagged
surface appears dry, dead. The colour of the soldiers’
clothes, like soil before rain. Both of them wear green
vests, for bullets and provisions. The one with a knee
close to the ground where the other lies
is smiling. The lifeless one has thicker beard
and no helmet, his shadow touches the sling
of the other’s rifle. I first saw them on my old laptop
screen three years ago. I see them again
on another machine, just as frozen.
Science Fiction 1
“Yes, please,” her last words. Ears
waiting for the flick of the switch.
The thick glass plate between her
and the man she trusts won’t allow more
than a dim red glow. Chamber of recycled
truck container. Crusts of rust on the stretcher
stolen from an abandoned clinic. Energy
saving lightbulbs with darkened tubes
like fingers burnt in a power outlet.
In a split second she will no longer remember
a loved one’s last embrace. That is her hope.
Throb on her temple, beating
of a moth. What comes next
is always a surprise even for the man
who has done this too many times.
Recycled Chandelier Tales
“Trust me, I’m telling you a story.”
—Jeanette Winterson, The Passion
1
Held up by spiderwebs
more than an iron ring clasped
to the ceiling, I burn
with the last lightbulb
that may bring an end to this.
All past existences
down to ash and rubble.
2
I was a trinket in a box
for the emperor’s twenty-seventh
concubine. I had three eyes
of rubies and a diamond.
I felt the grip
once of love, then no more
than lust. Until the people came
to set me free, so many voices,
so many feet soiling the chamber floor.
3
Dreams always end in darkness
from where they came.
My skin was not always white
or tinged with rust. I was red
with the blood of infidels.
Then of believers. Then of my master’s.
I used to cut the wind,
sing as it gasped in pain.
I remember petals coming down,
and thorns. Always something sharp
along with the touch of velvet.
4
I am electric. An abomination.
Spiders weave more stories
than I can remember. They taunt me
with their clumsy legs, their non-geometric
traps that catch nothing
but dust. They obscure
my view of a painting that was hung
for me to illuminate. Someone
spare me this existence. Crush
the last lightbulb and stab
a candle in its place.
I was meant for grandeur.
Not for this. Not this.
Jim Pascual Agustin
writes and translates poetry in Filipino and English. He grew up in the Philippines and now lives in Cape Town with his Canadian-born wife and their twin daughters. His recent poetry books, Kalmot ng Pusa sa Tagiliran and Sound Before Water, were simultaneously published in 2013 by the University of Santo Tomas Publishing House in Manila. Due for release by USTPH is his new poetry collection, A Thousand Eyes.