April 2022 | poetry
for my mother
“Fill a saucepan, wash potatoes, peel, cook. Eat potatoes.”
Obey a different voice… how?
When it’s time, my own time.
Believe it, before the white page.
Can’t I obey a different voice than hers?
Turn, change, choose, transform?
Believe it, then show before the white page.
Set new tasks and wait for faith.
Turn, change, choose, transform.
When will it be time, my voice, in earnest?
Settle in faith and wait, and in the meantime:
fill a saucepan, wash potatoes, peel, cook. Eat potatoes.
When it comes my time, my own, will I know it?
She always shushed my well-earned voice: “too loud.”
Fill a saucepan, wash, peel, cook potatoes. Eat potatoes
I forged a self against her ways.
Now she has died across this poem–
I’ve no one to make a sound for.
I did forge a self as she aided and defied it.
I clasp her jewels, her furniture, her orphaned things.
I’ve no one to write of, or to, or to make a sound for.
Mystery of how she saw me went to her grave.
I have only the things she left, no direction.
And all I write is aloneness in our aloneness…
The mystery of how she saw me went with her
and the journey ahead, still unfound.
I have only the things she left me, no direction.
Fill a saucepan, wash, peel, cook potatoes. Eat potatoes.
Marilyn E. Johnston
Marilyn E. Johnston Is the author of two full collections of poetry published by Antrim House Books, Silk Fist Songs (2008) and Weight of the Angel (2009). Her chapbook, Against Disappearance, won publication as a Finalist for the 2001 poetry prize of Redgreene Press, Pittsburgh. Her work has appeared in numerous journals including MacGuffin, South Carolina Review, Poet Lore, Worcester Review, and Rattle and has garnered six Pushcart Prize nominations. She has enjoyed two consecutive long-term careers, one in Cigna corporation communications and one in public library work which included poetry programming for the public. She retired from the library in 2017.
April 2022 | poetry
We raged brilliant that October afternoon.
Colored cords and silver round our wrists,
aromas of sweet corn, cumin. The salted air.
A row of blackbirds balanced tentatively
on high tension wires. The boardwalk,
nearly empty. Subdued tides reclaimed shells
and beaten strands of seaweed as if determined
to obscure what lay broken.
We rarely understood what the other was thinking,
although we recognized what was easy, the tempos of the waters,
the old family stories, how closely our faces
resembled one another.
Who at the table could predict
your death come spring?
You, a flicker, like a bright speck
from a disappearing sun. A faded
hue atop wrinkled waters.
When that day drifts back, I wonder,
would you remember
how the sky opened?
The way the ocean’s pulse
slowed? How the rain
wouldn’t quit?
J. A. Lagana
J. A. Lagana is a writer, poet, and editor from Pennsylvania. Her poetry has previously appeared in Atlanta Review, Naugatuck River Review, the Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.
April 2022 | poetry
They pitch them to you on the job:
U.S Treasury Savings Bonds—
tiny bites from your paychecks
you won’t even notice,
a sound investment in your country,
plus a locked-in return after thirty years—
but they’re really hoping you’ll die
first, leaving those Series EEs unclaimed,
the original paper kind they don’t make anymore.
Or maybe it will slip your senescent mind
that they’re waiting in the metal mouth
of the safe deposit box, inching toward maturity
and oblivious to the passage of time,
keeping company with your birth certificate,
the title to the car you rarely drive
and the deed to the falling-down house
you’ve paid off.
Now it’s winter of the thirtieth year,
who would have thought,
so you bundle up and go to the bank
where everyone wears a mask and the P.A. system
plays “Jingle Bells” over and over.
From the sealed envelope
you retrieve those pristine bonds
still holding their deferred promise of profit
and you hold them to it. Though
unrecognizable, even to yourself,
as being the one who bought them,
you cash them in.
Ruth Holzer
Ruth Holzer is the author of eight chapbooks, most recently, “Living in Laconia” (Gyroscope Press) and “Among the Missing” (Kelsay Books). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, Faultline, Slant, Poet Lore, Connecticut River Review and Plainsongs, among other journals and anthologies. She has received several Pushcart Prize nominations.
April 2022 | poetry
o my the pic-
nic bas-
don’t think I got kets of im-
this stuff on sale per-fec-tion
last week
it took men-ee
or cul-tiv- ya year
ate them some to find them
were excav-
ated with a knife
sniffing hog or or with the aid
old hound dog of a truffle-
others
by weaving were extrav-
gum wrappers aganted
the gum having
two in the plucked out a tooth or
process-
shun of my eyes
over now all over the
but the song pages it’s all
the drinking
the dented offender
oh this is apologies the tears
all I bring
but there I’m be-
ing ex-
or is it repre- pressive
sentative again again
or Sir Real again
but
keep bringing the big butt is I
more
or at least less
of it
of some
thing
each
again day
a gain
or no
Steve Fay
Steve Fay’s collection “what nature: Poems” was published by Northwestern University Press. A repeat winner of Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards and a Pushcart Prize nominee, his poetry has been published in Ascent, Beloit Poetry Journal, Field, Spoon River Poetry Review, TriQuarterly and several other journals and anthologies, and has recently appeared (or is forthcoming) in the “Hamilton Stone Review, Moving Force Journal, and the Comstock Review. He lives in Fulton County, Illinois.
April 2022 | poetry
our granddad fought the Germans but I battled through lunches
my bloodline gathered in the kitchen uncles with 5 o’ clock
shadows mistake me for schoolgirls they lured with pocketmoney
& promises I pull myself together in their pipe smoke
arrange tins of beans in jaunty pyramids kick shins of cousins
beneath the table their tree bark cheeks ruddy passing the sauce
as past lives lurch across history’s headland victories chipper & hard-won
I want to start fires in the bathroom wear the alley like a cat in heat
upend the garbage take off my clothes swear like a trooper
slice my thumb with the carving knife mop the blood with my bread
but I please&thankyou my way through dessert
impossible the things we don’t say to one another
stewing like spoilt fruit & cream
Rebecca Faulkner
Rebecca Faulkner is a London-born poet and arts educator based in Brooklyn. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Solstice Magazine, Smoke Magazine, Wild Roof Journal, Pedestal Magazine, The Maine Review, SWWIM, CV2 Magazine, On the Seawall, Into the Void, and other journals. She has been anthologized in the Best New British and Irish Poets 2019-2021, was a finalist for the 2021 Foster Poetry Prize, and the Jack McCarthy Book Prize. Rebecca was a 2021 Poetry Fellow at the Saltonstall Foundation for the Arts. She holds a BA in English Literature from the University of Leeds, and a Ph.D. from the University of London.
April 2022 | poetry
Octopus Ink at Dawn
I’m in the garden on a bench with green leaves
dripping diamonds of lemon sun.
Grandfather’s beard is growing on the fence and I’ve
Put out the umbrella I found at Bunnings.
It’s my red Japanese parasol that I pretend with.
A bee is buzzing somewhere, and I take photos of
Myself looking back at a phone to see someone new.
I think about making one of them my new profile pic
When the kitchen bench begins to swarm. I look
Back and I’m standing there, dress round my ankles
Not wearing any underwear. Thankfully, it’s all in my mind
But I’m by the sink; it’s true I shouldn’t try to think
So much when I should be sleeping, but I tell myself
The morning glow will soon wear off and while
I’m here smoking I can still feel the night snow.
A night of ploughing through the sleet at my computer
Makes me realise there’s jewels in my eyes, but
Then I cough and wonder how soon my last little
Breath might come, and how silly it would seem then for
Me to be sitting here singing about dream dragons.
On the news last night was a boy down the road
And a girl in a barrel, and I’ve put too much lemon
In my whiskey sour. It’s awful, but not like that.
I want to live but still be awake for tomorrow in this brand
New day. I might find another way to see the trees
Through the sun. But now it’s way past dawn and
The fire breathing clouds keep on hanging
Beyond the tree that keeps on waving,
And butterflies are still light and flying around
In the shining sun. It makes me like it here
Sitting and thinking on octopus ink,
Hoping I won’t take my last breath till
The very last run of the clock that is turning
Around and around like a kaleidoscope
Spinning down into a rabbit hole at the
Bottom of the garden. I’ve got to realise
Something surely. So I’ve got sage clouds burning,
And incense sticks are sending clouds to the
Sky to smudge the dark rain away.
‘I love you anyway,’ I say to the tentacles,
Eely snakes swirling across the blue horizon.
I pray to them, a poet caught in a too hot
Fire that floats in the gentle yellow wings
Of flying insects before anyone knew they
Were born: just a well worn truth, I guess,
A fact of nature and a limitless plate of
Blue where alligators pounced on a swimmer
Who never knew that the water hid a hungry
Limb that was ready for a person such as you.
And I knew that I was you too.
Like the coo of a pigeon in distant lemonade,
All that was missing was the image of your cry.
But I really must go now even though it’s
A veritable shame, as sad as the bees and the crow
That caws all alone, a flapping black omen of morning.
Ariel’s Revenge
no work today but dystopia flagellation
coming in close to home,
oscilloscope arriving
Kate Durbin stethoscope
toming on a throne for a seat
for an ‘I’ for an iPrincess
‘Me’
fat red lips
smeared frog green;
trout blood wax layered about
smacking pout:
‘Beautiful’
sigh – still life bowl
where all the refuse goes
Seraphim stickers I watch
flush away
close up, flying
into churn of phosphorescent
tubes of web worms’ hole
draining down heaven’s
apocalyptic vision
sick day today
procrastinate everyway
so funny:
raster ray babes diagnosing
disease with electron gun parody
silly me
girls, effigies
mutilated dolls, doppelganger
cyber-fracking trolls
wishing back into being
little mermaid complete
another video to pastiche:
Lara Glenum’s orange fish
swim on Paris Hilton hair
with scissors
with Ariel standing over her doctor’s
corpse: sea foam, daughter of air
reaching for dry land –
she revived during the dissection
to see two self-sliced
legs live streaming for her defection
Megan Anning
Megan Anning is an Australian writer who is fascinated by Bohemianism and the romantic idea of the ‘starving artist’. Her stories and poetry often incorporate intertextuality and have appeared in Text Journal, FIVE:2:ONE, October Hill Magazine, The Citron Review, The Closed Eye Open, The Dope Fiend Daily and The West End Magazine. She has an MA in Creative Writing and is completing her first novel as part of her PhD at Griffith University, Queensland.
