April 2024 | poetry
It was spring, no I mean dusk, and the killdeer began stepping up out
of intricate doors in the field.
They sported unseen fires beneath their downy vests.
Their presence had been warming the soil before the corn crop, except
for their dead sisters, brothers who had joined the soil.
No, that was in my dream, before the part where the covers had parted
and a voice I didn’t recognize asked a question.
It felt like an ancient alphabet trying to spell some message.
It left a churning in my belly for the rest of that day, and again the day
after.
And the killdeer, that first night, had yet to break their wings.
They had no fear of owls, nor of hawks in the morning, after
daybreak.
And the toe prints they left in the muddy swale read as the myth of
Osiris.
Steve Fay began life twelve miles from the Mississippi River in western Illinois. Since the mid-1970s, many journals have published his poetry, which lately appears (or is forthcoming) in: Closed Eye Open, Comstock Review, Decadent Review, Jabberwock Review, Menacing Hedge, Santa Clara Review, Tar River Poetry, The Dewdrop, TriQuarterly, and Watershed Review. His collection, what nature: Poems (Northwestern UP, 1998), was cited by the editors and board of The Orion Society as one of their 10 favorite nature/culture-related books of the 12-month period in which it appeared. He lives among wooded ravines and a donkey pasture in Fulton County, Illinois.
Steve Fay
April 2024 | poetry
It has been forty years.
he in New York me in San Francisco.
erasing him with ease for forty years. yet he is coming
and wants to meet for a drink. really?
does he regret the divorce and realize he fucked
up by sleeping with Sally and Sara and Sue?
spending weekends shuffling numbers in his fancy office
on the thirty-sixth floor. but honey
my heartstrings have moved on. happily
Married to a marvelous man. and what
would I wear? certainly not my usual jeans or sweats
that make me look dowdy. which I definitely am. but
certainly not a tight sweater over sagging boobs.
certainly not scads of makeup. which I would have to buy.
I don’t want to fire up his remorse. or do I?
vengeance sweeter than Christmas pie. especially pecan.
rolling the taste on my tongue like a butterscotch disc.
what about the bills for two-hundred dollar “massages”?
Yet we did have some good times, didn’t we? I finger
my rosary of memories. breathless in Florence
standing before David. Coins tossed
in Trevi Fountain. but honey do I really want
to reminisce? do I really want to spend strung-out nights
worrying about what to wear? and fretting
that faint embers might gleam again? flaring
with a word, a look, or even a friendly kiss.
maybe best to say I am busy.
for the next forty years.
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t. She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.
Claire Scott
January 2024 | poetry
I am okay with being
monstrous, I know
how you view me when I
step out with three heads, I
know the many ways
you think of me.
The day folds
up into a tiny square
which I put into my
middle mouth, underneath its
tongue. Watch the neck twitch.
I am many things but
easy is not one. I try to
hold myself between my
fingers and you know
what happens. Are you
formless as water, like me?
When did you last throw a knife
into a mirror, bare your
teeth with eyes
wide from hunger?
When they first clothed me,
somewhere in the midst of me,
a twig snapped.
And it radiated outward
like a bomb.
Zeke Shomler
Zeke Shomler is currently pursuing a combined MA/MFA at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. His work has appeared in Cordite, Stone Poetry Quarterly, After Happy Hour Review, and elsewhere online.
January 2024 | poetry
hovers over your coiffed head, cawing in protest at the abominable stench rising, tears in its eyes, close to regurgitating its hard-sought lunch. Coleridge. Coleridge. Coleridge, you dotard. Have you no pity? No mercy? Must you pollute the earth’s air with poetry, chasing me as I flee your icy bewilderment? Must you call after me, your hideous voice echoing against the bruised clouds? Why should I not kill you for such elemental transgressions, silent seas be damned; your shrieks mutes the thunder, your delirium churns the slimy sea, my home, turning it against me and my kind. Rotting darkened sea, my frosted ass. Spare me your off-rhymes, the failed slants, the tortured rhythms. They fall from my ears no easier than my carcass was dropped from your neck. Father. Feather. Further. Forfend. Yet you claim a tale to share, a future to save. A weaver of lies like you need only make boast to be believed. Dead, yet I am able to nest in your grey beard, to ponder mortalities whilst you blamed me as if I was the cross Jesus bore. What calumny. What hubris. What a drug-induced delirium. I was never your interlocutor. The magnet that drew your warped dreams outward. Your ship sails without me, my stilled wings offer no forward aid. Yet your heart drums another beat, a stilled sorrow, something that blackens the stars and cauterizes cataracts and keeps the soul anchored to watery earth. You see the prayerless dead. The moon that abandons those who look to the sky. Stars that failed and fell far away from those who needed their comforting light. Sleepless, you laid this burden around my withered neck, seeking to save your miserable own. Not enough that I was dead, you laid heavier burdens upon my wizened neck, and sought freedom from a past that held you tight, kept your lungs from filling, and drew its life as yours. Already dead, you lingered in a denatured bliss, a world without, a sphere unbound, lacking angels and song, and any answer to a prayer unasked. Your ship sailed without you, and will dock without snow or mist. No waves will follow your path. No wind will calm or breathe to ensure your warped heaven. No blind sailors will raise sails or secure a rudder for your voyage. Nothing can rise from this sorrowed moon’s passage.
Richard Weaver
Post-Covid, the author has returned as writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub in Baltimore. Among his other pubs: conjunctions, Vanderbilt Review, Southern Quarterly, Free State Review, Hollins Critic, Misfit Magazine, Loch Raven Review, The Avenue, New Orleans Review, & Burningword. He’s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for the symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). He was a finalist in the 2019 Dogwood Literary Prize in Poetry. His 200th Prose poem was recently published.
January 2024 | poetry
Between 1860 and 1939, thousands of poor young women
from Eastern European shtetls were sold into sexual slavery
by the Jewish-run Zwi Migdal crime syndicate which controlled
highly profitable brothels in Brazil, Argentina and the U.S.
How to pry open the iris of footnote.
As they stooped around rickety tables
on dirt floors they imagined an orange
a day and gold capped teeth. So peasant
girls with milky skin and luscious hair
left their hardscrabble shtetls sleeved
in promise from so many visiting Prince
Charmings in patent-leather shoes,
tailored trousers, and silk handkerchiefs
soaked in rose water to temper poverty’s stench.
By ship or train, the new air of a new world
was double-dealing, empty of marriage,
seamstress careers, or taffeta finery. Instead
the air was burdened with fear and sadness,
immigrant streets of trapped women in the many
“convents” of Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, or
New York’s Lower East Side. Yoked by greedy
pimps to another kind of assembly line with rape
the often tool of the trade, each Eve did
their bidding, merchandise of the counterfeit kind.
And so the bruised skin of days and nights
began—the who’s your daddy in a labyrinth
of rooms with flimsy plywood partitions
in dilapidated clapboard brothels, to feel
the not feeling of pressure at their napes,
stale breath of sugarcane alcohol, rough
hands to paw their breasts, pry open
their thighs, the insignificance of release.
These transplanted sisters forced and entered,
counted and discounted, dank scent of lavender
struggling to find their no’s.
Forged letters back home to Odessa,
Lodz, Krakow, Kiev. I’m afraid your daughter
is lost forever. She’s a woman who belongs
to everybody now. Yiddish rhymes from childhood
whispered to soothe their cheap camisoled sleep.
The spit at their heels, hushed children crossing
cobblestones when their red lipsticked, heavily rouged,
high-heeled clicks came by. These colonized flower buds
that rotted in shame and syphilis, beatings and stabbings,
yellow fever, tuberculosis, or the exhausted swallow
of carbolic acid.
How to heal the script for these women of footnote long gone—
the Bruchas, Rebeccas, Sophias, and Rosas, the Klaras, Olgas,
Lenas and Helenas, the Berthas, Isabels, Rachels, and Fannys.
Today, we perform your tahara cleansing your bodies with
cascades of sacred water to comfort and purify you at last.
Rikki Santer
Rikki Santer’s poetry has been published widely and has received many honors including several Pushcart and Ohioana book award nominations, a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities, and in 2023 she was named Ohio Poet of the Year. She is currently serving as vice-president of the Ohio Poetry Association and is a member of the teaching artist roster of the Ohio Arts Council. Her twelfth poetry collection, Resurrection Letter: Leonora, Her Tarot, and Me, is a sequence in tribute to the surrealist artist Leonora Carrington. Please contact her through her website, https://rikkisanter.com.
January 2024 | poetry
Specifically,
the girl falling
hard enough from the saddle
to clack her teeth.
Just under my favorite tree.
The man: lean into it.
(He does, the tree.)
Unicycle’s like walking
on your hands. You’re
always in a state of almost
falling. Lean into it
or you land on your ass.
So she sets up again,
white lip knuckle-crook
contact, whole earth
like a pendulum.
I never got the hang
of that either, she says.
Generally,
what passes for summer
in these parts. A golden crown
sparrow hops clear,
watches her wobble
by in broken light like
it was nothing new.
Keith T. Fancher
Keith T. Fancher is not a poet. Born in the California redwoods and raised in the Blue Ridge foothills, he holds degrees in computer science and film studies. Nonetheless, his work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Red Ogre Review, OPEN: Journal, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. He lives in San Francisco.
