October 2022 | Best of Net nominee, poetry
Would love to bake chocolate chip cookies again with you. Do not
care if we ate all the dough and had no cookies to eat. Miss you.
Come as you are. Do not care if there’s bones, skin, or nothing. As long
as it’s you. I will know you by your laugh or simply your touch. Miss
you. We never did get to run that half marathon together.
Was run in your honor. A full too. When you come please bring that
cheesy pepperoni bread. Soooo delicious. Have not been
able to duplicate it. The cheese melts into the dough and it’s terrible
re-heated. Think it’s the wrong kind of dough. You would know.
Miss you. Heartbreaking life experiences shatter. I’m sorry.
I am sorry I failed you. Would love to hug you. Hard. Kiss your check.
Your forehead. Hug you again. To many unsaid goodbyes. I know
you said goodbye before you left forever. Knew it. Felt it.
Here. Inside. Look for you in my dreams … into that wide darkness … can’t
find you. Will forever Miss You. Riding brought you so much joy … exuberance.
You wanted to go faster and faster … as fast as the horse’s hooves would
run … which now pound my heart … my head. It’s almost spring.
Daffodils sprouting and covered in snow. You loved their yellow happiness.
I remember you telling me how pissed you were with your mom for making
you pick the ones in the field. Planting time. Dogs running through the
garden … playfully trampling all your plants. We are all dog hoarders now. Miss you.
The sea is calling. We can walk on the beach. Looking for sand dollars, shells,
and starfish. Let me know where to meet. We’ll both show up. Bring that
blue jean hat we all loved. The one where your white blond uncontrollable curls
tumble out. We have so much to catch up on. I want to hear all about
Heaven … how you’re doing. I’ll bring the cheesy pepperoni bread and flowers.
Daffodils or Sunflowers? The new dog will be on a leash. You’ll love him.
He’s a foodie too. Any time. Any place. Or just the dining room table.
That’s fine too. Just come.
MD Bier
MD Bier is a binge reader and you’ll always find a book with her. Her writing reflects her passion for social change and social issues. Being part of the Project Write Now Community is where she writes and studies poetry. She has been published in the Write Launch, Humans of the World, New Brunswick Poetry Anthology, and the New Brunswick Windows on the World. MD Bier lives in NJ with her family and dog.
October 2022 | poetry
Dear Tina,
Is it possible your turtleness has something to sing?
Bought with a boy’s allowance, you’ve learned
a new word: plunder, a contribution
to mid-grade reptilian literature.
Is it possible a diva like you
is drawn to a spot of light? You were there
that day with the boy in his room. You seem
desperate to speak. Perhaps some ember of his
infiltrated your shell. He couldn’t sing
either. His head was your Goodyear blimp.
Now, all the lonely hours you’ve shredded.
What were you thinking as he hung there?
The world has many competent turtle people,
but I’m not one of them. I’m sorry.
I tried to give you away but you’re
one of the most invasion species here.
All the turtle literature warned against
plopping red-eared sliders into random habitats.
And now you have mental health issues. You
seem urgent. O Tina, tell me you miss
that boy, that body you watched grow up,
appearing and disappearing like a
companionship of wind, suddenly still,
then gone. Still. Gone.
Brian Builta
Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. He has recently published poems in Jabberwock Review, Juke Joint Magazine, and South Florida Poetry Journal, with poems forthcoming in New Ohio Review and TriQuarterly.
October 2022 | poetry
Downpour pelts windows, rakes roof
like shards hurled in menace.
The torrent brakes slowly, as though coaxed to relent.
A respite that cradles seeds of relief that will soon
vanish, Scott thinks as he zooms in on a cardinal’s
cautious dip in a puddle beyond its sheltered nest.
Choice lies in the space between frames.
Focus to see it, or miss it & get carved by tides.
Worse yet, see it and stand struck, a piano key stuck
unhinged from resonance. Scott once found consonance
with Steph under a willow tree, a refuge from raindrops
that soaked their skin as sunlight dappled through
storm clouds. Creeping myrtle carpeted ground where
he went down on one knee, weather be damned.
He’d still make that choice after seeing
the frames that followed: currents that surged
and swept them in their wake. Adrift, he crops
the cardinal shot, softens shadows until
its color pops, stashes it amid thousands of
moments frozen in time, sketches on fogged glass
stiffened into stone. Steph murmurs, voice barely
a whimper since her last chemo. He
lets go
of his camera, its lens
powerless before a butterfly’s floundering flutter.
V.A. Bettencourt
A. Bettencourt writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Magma Poetry, The American Journal of Poetry, and Willows Wept Review, among others.
October 2022 | poetry
1.
With boulders, or another substance that can’t burn, I’ll build a barn,
buy Nigerian goats to bounce with favored popcorn sheep.
Animals kicking bare bone as wildfire steams a skyline.
2.
Goatee on my chin, the soul of California is burning like a lung.
I’m goat eye, horizontal, confusing as three pupils,
a shag of helpless, readying to die in the coming singe.
3.
I don’t eat meat from a table though mouths I love
water at the char of curry. Sweet strings of shoulder,
a chew of God meat in the cheek of a funky heaven.
Robert Carr
Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, published in 2016 by Indolent Books and The Unbuttoned Eye, a full-length 2019 collection from 3: A Taos Press. Among other publications his poetry appears in Crab Orchard Review, Lana Turner Journal, the Maine Review, the Massachusetts Review and Shenandoah. Selected by the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance, he is the recipient of a 2022 artist residency at Monson Arts. Additional information can be found at robertcarr.org
October 2022 | nonfiction
There’s singing and then there’s Freddie Mercury. Out of the deep and deepening well of sound just there in him as if music like a swarm of bees searching for home at last finds it in him, pours into him, seeps into every molecule of bone and marrow, shimmers the blood flowing through every capillary, flumes up into his throat and rushes out to buoy me on the exhilarating, turbulent sea of Bohemian Rhapsody, waking my fallow griefs, fruiting them in every bare note of a capella then oozing into ballad then punching up my flagging spirit with fisticuffs of opera and hard rock then wafting ever so slowly like a collapsing mylar balloon sinking back and hovering over the reflecting well of sound in him and submerges there.
Biographer David Bret puts Mercury’s deep, throaty rock-growl nudging a tender, vibrant tenor to life, then scaling a high-pitched, perfect coloratura, pure and crystalline, in my ears, and for a moment I hear the small shatters of broken glass on kitchen floors, the throb of tired feet and stubbed toes on a narrow trail. I draw a breath of musty, fragrant air, duck my head into a dust devil whirl of exhilaration and then I’m wrapped in the chill of lost ways and then lifted in crazy joy, into the mosaic of a stained glass window sunlight beamed through the pinwheeling colors splashed onto a stone cathedral floor.
He’s humming now, collecting minors and majors, pulling out useful detritus from his storied life as he draws out a velvet chair, directs me into it, and settles me at the groaning board of the feast. The late summer dusk chorus of crickets starts up and I do not shut the windows all night.
Paula Marafino Bernett
Paula Marafino Bernett’s poetry has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Clackamas Literary Review, The Louisville Review, Margie, Nimrod International Journal, Rattle, Salamander, Tar River Poetry, and Whiskey Island, among others. Her lyric essay “Digression and Memory, The Handmaiden Effect” and a companion essay “Four Hands Improvising on a Piano” appeared in Fourth Genre. A lyric essay “The Smallest Leaning Begins …” was published in Eastern Iowa Reviewand Birdcoat Quarterly published “Lady Mondegreen Rises from the One Who Was Laid Upon the Green.” The flash essay “How a Person Becomes a Body” was published by Gigantic Sequins and nominated for a 2020 Pushcart Prize. She holds an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and an MaLa from St. John’s College in Santa Fe, NM. She lives in NYC with Chance, her beloved Chessie.
