lend credibility to imaginary walls.
The perfect frame for time-
stopped moments of mind rain.
They flair to life. Laugh, dance, twirl
an eternity into the blink
of an eye that only pretends to be
blind.
I hand over the two
dimensional datum ephigical
laminated version of myself
to anonymous hands.
Fingers fly
over keys. Stroking,
entering my parameters. I am
essentially logged, filed
away for future reference.
by AJ Huffman
While you were gone
We talked
We touched
We slid melting
Ice cubes over
Sweat slick thighs
While you were gone
We danced barefoot
To the little radio
In the kitchen
Naked
Ate chocolate chip
Cookies and licked
Crumbs off our faces
Together
While you were gone
We laughed
Softly and hard
As the light fell
We sat face to
Face and fingered
Eyelashes
Until
With an unwarning whir
You returned
In blaze of light and
Blaring voice
And caught us
In reimpowered
Sixty inch eye
Shamed separate
we covered ourselves
And resumed
Our silent watch
Power restored
Pearl Ketover Prilik, freelance writer/psychoanalyst, is a believer in the spark that flickers within each and connects all. She has three nonfiction books published, was editor of a post-doc psychoanalytic newsletter and lately, editor/contributor of two collaborative international poetry anthologies.
Her love is binary
off or on
yes or no
zero or one
but if she could rest
in the untapped mantle
between extremes
or even possibility
there is acceptance
and tranquility
like liquid tangibility
no tears or lament
just a trace of light
enough to see
a love that is
one more than one
and two more
than nothing
at all.
103 degrees, the city’s pavement cooks lovers like us sunny side up. But no one’s smiling. We sweat to forget the heat, sit down on a banged up bench at Van Cortland Park, devouring those dollar mango icies I love so much. We lazily reminisce about our foreclosed childhoods, watching a giddy girl and boy play in grass-stained overalls and clunky sneakers. They fantasize about being us, assigning each other scripted destinies through bossy fingers, yelling–You’re the man. You’re the woman. And we’ll play Love! Inspired, we clutch wet palms and pull each other to the direction of our own playhouse.
We go home. Forget past-due Con Ed bills and put that gray, old fashioned air conditioner on high– teasingly butt-bumping each other to get some one-on-one with its artificial breeze. No use, our bodies keep humming. So we improvise. If anyone’s looking for us, they can follow the trail of musty clothing we peeled off each other with great speed and ‘who-cares-right-now’ precision– the soiled socks, the pit-stained t-shirts, the dingy undies. To my closet of a bathroom, where we let cold tap water hit our bare backs, watching escaped hairs,
pollen,
soap suds,
and unfinished love poems trickle down to join the liquid chase.
The sun’s kisses are still pressing down on us, kissing dry the little droplets of satisfaction.
So we defy nature. We unzip and slip out of our sandpaper skins, throw them over my black ottomans, and play a sultry Sade track to help us catch the Holy Ghost, dancing tight and slow , whispering, Let’s play Love. A purple aura surrounds our souls and we levitate above the heavy heat. We play nude patti-cake in the lavender phenomenon; our limbs finally fuse into each other. We hope our game can continue to the moon. Before we know it, we’re flirting with the dusty ceiling, tapping our translucent toes to the last notes of the tune we left playing. The aura dims and we begin descend down,
disoriented
And zig-
zagging
back to the gas oven of a Bronx apartment. I cannot help to perspire you and
you perspire me. We don‘t give each other destined locations. You can sleep in my body and I sleep in yours.
I am currently a Drama Specialist and Literature Arts instructor for Harlem Center for Education in New York City. I graduated from Marymount Manhattan College with a B.A. in playwriting. My poetry has been published in the Marymount Manhattan Review, along with other literary magazines. My poetry has won honorable recognition in the national Random House Creative Writing Competition and my theatrical works have received numerous honors from the Young Playwrights of New York City.
Loose steps lead down to the dusty porch
surrounded by the graffitied stone wall
I watch the sun rise from the lawn chair
paces from the small bungalow where we lived
sharing cinnamon rolls, spaghetti, lemonade
all of us stuffed in tight
the blue coat of paint on the house so worn
we see rough splintered wood underneath
the shutters squeak in the wind
the roof leaks and my father curses, puts
back the split shingles and reseals them
the sun high and hot over the flagstone path
the front door with the torn screen
my grandmother grows tomatoes along that walk
near the boulder left sometime after the last ice age
I imagine its ancient world when dinosaurs
and woolly mammoths roamed among the trees
now the lawn is crushed by dandelions
and giant ragweed bushes stampede across
red tailed hawks screech in wheezing oaks
as my heart sinks with the sun on the planks
and I slip into a place of buzzing voices
my brothers plead
and my mother bangs the car keys on the table
The driveway up front by the big willow
points away from the house onto the broken road
with millions of hairline cracks
like fault lines to other houses, other families.
Alison Carb Sussman’s chapbook, On the Edge, is scheduled for publication by Finishing Line Press in May, 2013. Her poetry has appeared in The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts, The Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Eclipse, Slipstream, and elsewhere. She currently studies at The Writers Studio under the direction of Philip Schultz.
