Poetry Winter 2016 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover Joel Filipe
Alexander McCoy
Questions to Ask a Mountain
& other poems
Alexandra Kamerling
Prairie
& other poems
Debbie Hall
She Walks Into Starbucks Carrying a 2 x 4
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Patience
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
Sheet and Exposed Feet
& other poems
Melissa Cantrell
Collision
& other poems
Martin Conte
Skin
& other poems
AJ Powell
The Road to Homer
& other poems
Paul W. Child
World Diverted
& other poems
Michael Eaton
Remembrances
& other poems
Lawrence Hayes
Walking the Earth
& other poems
Daniel Sinderson
Like a Bit of Harp and a Far Off Twinkle
& other poems
Sam Hersh
Las Trampas
& other poems
Margo Jodyne Dills
Babies and Young Lovers
& other poems
Nicole Anania
To the Dying Man's Daughter
& other poems
Lisa Zou
Under the Parlor
& other poems
Hazel Kight Witham
Hoofbeat Heartbeat
& other poems
Margaret Dawson
Daylily
& other poems
James Wolf
An Act of Kindness
& other poems
Jane A. Horvat
Psychedelic
& other poems
Bill Newby
Touring
& other poems
Jennifer Sclafani
Hindsight Twenty Twenty
& other poems
Jane A. Horvat
the sky is falling, LOUDLY
When I was hatched
my mom had to pick away the eggshells,
break the film between my oasis and the noise.
It were as if I knew beforehand how loud the world would be.
Even then, eagerness to be overwhelmed was not part of
my genetic makeup.
I had hoped my down feathers would muffle the sounds
or that my wings could carry me into
a vacuum of sorts.
Yet, one morning I woke up to the screech of
the rusty clipping shears
and knew I’d be walking to Radio Shack
to buy a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
I wished for hearing aids
so I could have the ability to turn them off.
I learned to speak with my hands
so I could stop listening with my mouth.
Once upon a time
they asked me
“What came first,
the chicken or the egg?”
but that question is irrelevant
when you were born a chicken
but identify as a deaf-leopard
hiding behind her spots.
Same shit different day
Today I told myself,
“Hey, it’s just a day.
You’ll put on a white blouse,
Tuck it into your pencil skirt,
And catch the metro.
Some business man in an
Expensive suit will upend his
Gourmet coffee on your shirt
And grumble, exasperated,
About his bad luck
Without telling you he’s sorry
Because he doesn’t have time to be sorry
And you won’t have time to change
But you’ll stop by the Gap
And rip the closest cream-colored shirt
Off its hanger and it’ll be rung up
And on you before you realize
You needed to buy white not cream.”
All in all,
today could be worse.
But I sighed
because I told myself that yesterday.
Blank Stares Don’t Create
Fairy Tales
Is there a message to decipher or lines to read between
now that I’ve paused?
Before, everything was encrypted, sheaves of allegories lay strewn,
graphite and wood shavings littered the bottom of the basket.
I lived in tornado alley and new twisters swept through every weekend.
I would hide in the cellar, tie myself to a pipe, and create.
Chaos and angst spurred the gradual bulge of my forearm muscles.
The cacophony of never-resolving arguments was my vinyl-encased soundtrack.
I twirled ’round and ’round while maintaining the stunning lines ’rinas must keep
but only when the winds were whipping past at 70 mph or more.
I locked myself down there as limb-ripping gales tore through foundations.
Countless scribbles left ridges on the walls, the floor, my eyelids, everywhere.
Streaming hair fanned out mid-spin. Should’ve snapped photos it was so picturesque.
Perpetual despair looked beautiful on me. Occasional pleasure reapplied my rogue.
Now my mail arrives at a different address and contentment accompanies me
as the rungs of the high-backed chair bitingly remind me I’m stagnant.
I no longer pursue the same utensils.
My creations would weep if they weren’t already extinct.
Can’t craft a code or spin a yarn woven with illusion, not when I’m submerged in smiles.
What does that say about me?
My current queries don’t spawn stories or sonnets, just a frightened preponderance
of what this conundrum entails for a future in fairy-dust and freedom.
Is it even worth pressing play if there is nothing to watch?
Psychedelic
When I find myself in the colors
I drown in a pool of lavender.
A pedophile skips stones
across the surface.
Each plop sends
a ripple of turquoise spreading out,
but when the jagged rock
scrapes my forehead, fuchsia
drips down the side of my face.
When the droplet collides with
the gripping lavender
a shimmering silver portal
opens and transports us,
the pedophile,
the Vacation Bible School group
decked out in matching
tangerine T-shirts,
and I
into a silent movie
where it’s raining black and white
and my mauve screams
meet the dead air
and my head goes under
the grey water
while the pedophile’s cream whistle
is mean to keep his mind
off the pink pigtails
on my side of submerged Saturn.
Mint smiles turn towards
the smoothness of his distraction.
I notice them
with my violet eyes
and they pass over my flailing
until everything fades to black
and we are all just swimming
on opposite shores of Lake Eerie.
Pretty in P!nk
Looking in the mirror is how you and I play Russian roulette.
Looking over our shoulders is how we take a break from playing dumb.
You twirl me around after to our wedding song,
But I’m wearing a blood-splattered negligée,
And you’re sporting a ripped oxford and multiple stab wounds.
God, I hate how much I love you.
When people ask us how we’re doing
We smile with our mouths closed and say,
“We’re so much more than fine.”
Never lying, just burning down and freezing to death in the same breath.
We were smart enough
To avoid purchasing the glass house,
Despite the realtor’s insistence of it having
The perfect backyard of sand and cacti.
We are not black and white picket fence people.
No, we are black and blue bruises people,
Pink and green-eyed monster people,
Purple hearts for bravery and run-through-every-yellow-light people.
We continue to try even though we’ve gone colorblind.
Your embrace is holding a hand warmer
And drinking cinnamon whisky apple cider until
Your embrace is fire ants colonizing under my skin
And tequila torching me until I’m a charred mannequin.
I’d leave you so fucking quick,
But my embrace is snuggling under down blankets
And having no obligation to leave the warmth of our bed until
My embrace is a chokehold with a side of asphyxiation via pillow
And your throat is the acrid dessert awaiting the monsoons.
We break each other and then practice our tourniquets.
You rip my clothes off, emphasis on rip,
right before throwing me on our broken mattress
and kicking my legs apart.
You trail soft kisses down my belly
As I pull chunks of hair from your scalp
And leave claw marks on top of the invisible scars
From years of verbal abuse in our brick house.
I don’t know why you haven’t left either.
We sling insults over breakfast,
Throw dirty looks during lunch,
Play hot potato with pin-less hand grenades between dinner courses,
And exchange kisses between bites of dessert.
I throw your clothes out the windows.
You throw chairs at the walls.
We throw our hearts down the garbage disposal,
And stand, front to back, looking in the mirror,
Wondering how we ended up here.
Jane A. Horvat
is a poet and short fiction writer from Rockford, Illinois. An undergraduate student at the University of Notre Dame, she is pursuing a degree in English and Romance Languages and will be studying in Bologna, Italy for 6 months. She believes that the world’s various truths are best expressed through creative writing, and she is currently working on a collection of poetry and short stories.