White Coffin

July 2011 | back-issues, poetry

I made spaghetti for supper.

A bad day, you said. You needed a soak.

Your last words

as you breezed past me.

Moments later the bathtub faucet came on

an army of water pouring out

marching through your windpipe

and seizing your soul.

With a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob.

You, in your work suit

overturned in the overflowing mess,

and I dropped to my knees

and shrieked like a dying hawk.

A week after, I stand to face the bathroom mirror,

glaringly memorizing my pale complexion.

Flicking away the tears

Rolling

down my raw red cheeks.

I touch the limp strands of hair

clinging to my face like refrigerator magnets.

Vodka oozing from my skin,

the soles of my feet black as the coffin they buried you in.

With a jagged fingernail, I scrape

the dirt from my face leaving a trail of pink skin beneath the scum.

I want to scour the dead cell layers,

the grease, the grime.

But you died in that white coffin.

I walk around to the backyard and twist the hose faucet

until icy water spews from the metal mouth

down my frail legs and back.

Goosebumps rise over my body and I gasp

from the shock of cold, the icy hands,

stinging my back

taking my breath away.

– Annie McCormick

Annie holds a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing with a specialization in Poetry from Ohio University.

Sarah Marchant

July 2011 | back-issues, poetry

2:41 AM

We sat in a sun-stained booth

nibbling at lo mein noodles, and I

swallowed whatever ridiculous thoughts I could’ve spewed

to cure the disease that is vibrating silence –

like the story behind

the invention of doughnuts;

for some reason, that struck me

as something so significant that I felt

I had to tell you, had to bring it up,

but I never got the chance.

Squirming in the passenger seat,

I adjusted my position, crossing my legs and

staring at the sky for dear life;

my skinny fingers gripped the seat tightly,

imagining the windshield disintegrating

to mingle with that bleak, lonely-heart hue –

give a kiss and reassure

that you were being honest.

French manicures, eye paint,

and luxuriating in small talk over

chocolate delights

led into the moment when I noticed

my stomach pressing against my ribs

and I breathed ever harder,

staring out the blurred window –

it was so hard to concentrate

on distant train whistles and clutching my peace of mind

when I felt as though I could burst

into every piece I didn’t want you to see.

Driving home in the gray,

we were even less open than before;

your sleepless eyes focused ahead,

a tilted-head songbird

dispersing notes, stabbing the quiet

with self-isolating precision.

Clasped Tightly

the moon swam in

sticky shadows, tar ghosts

shivering against our backs,

and I tapped my fingers in

river rhythms to remind

your pulse of its

purpose.

High School

The tiles of the floor encase me

in scuffed beiges and pencil

smudges; pity there aren’t

cheat sheets for life tucked

in-between the cracks. All that

I can see are quadratic equations

and love notes in looping cursive,

telling me that this place is

no longer where I want to be.

April 2, 2009

We sat in the dark,

munching on popcorn on napkins

(with more kernels than not),

dark soda fizzing in

red plastic cups,

and Charlie Chaplin

blown out of an Alaskan cabin

on the television.

– Sarah Marchant

Miles Liss

July 2011 | back-issues, poetry

Disturbed

They say I am mildly disturbed

I stay awake at night, have paranoid visions

Have no girlfriend, nothing

I scratch my head for no apparent reason

I talk to myself and laugh in mid-sentence

They say I am mildly disturbed

Like blue detergent flushing

Down a toilet bowl

I am not mildly disturbed

But I feel like a prisoner in concrete walls

I wish I had a friend I could talk to

I think that would make a difference

I wish I lived in a community

That was concerned about my welfare

A farm or something, and we could work together

And I don’t like carrying guns anymore

And I don’t even like rock n’ roll anymore

I have permanently turned off my television

Because I’m convinced it’s giving me cancer

I don’t really like machines that run on

Electricity, gasoline or other resources

Except my coffeemaker, I am a coffee addict

It’s getting out of control

If I was having sex every night

I would stop drinking coffee

Attention ladies, I like most of you

I would like to have a relationship with you

You can be the dictator every once in awhile

Let’s reproduce in the name of the anti-corporate regime

Let’s never make love in public places

Let’s burn all the porno houses down

And blow up every satellite dish

Together, we can put an end to sodomy

I Love You

My grandmother said, “I love you” on the phone

Every time we talked

After she was diagnosed with dementia

More times than I can count

More than any lover

More than any friend

She wanted those words to linger

Long after memory was erased

These days my grandmother

Doesn’t know who I am

She stares at me

As though I’m a stranger

Come to ransack the place

As a child, I imagined this world

As my permanent home

I had no idea we could

Travel to other places

Even disappear

Even while alive

I just want to say, “Thank you,” Grandma

My gratitude is immeasurable

For the comforts you provided

Just by smiling

I miss you so much it hurts

– Miles Liss