October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
miss xanax
(originally published in The Battered Suitcase Nov. ’08)
She says
“you don’t have to watch”
As she gets things ready
Cellophane wrapper from a cigarette pack
A lighter
A cut straw
The pills
She says
“you don’t have to watch
But I need to do this”
Takes the pills
Places them on the glass top table
Places the cellophane wrapper over them
Slides the lighter in slight crunches
The pale pink pills turn to dust
She says
“you’re not going to cry are you?”
She takes an ID in which she’s smiling
Says she’s an organ donor
But she won’t give me her heart
The card cuts lines
Leaves trails of thin dust behind
Dirty honey hair hangs down to the glass
the straw jerks moving slow then fast
She says
“you’re not going to cry are you?”
I lie to her for the first time
that legendary divorce
(originally published in E2K July 2004)
summer in america
the land of milk and
honey not tonight
I have a headache
and I hate you
and I can’t put it into words
but one small push
like kids on a swing
thinking that they can touch the sky and I
might kill you
for making me forget
what love is
or is supposed to be
or that I even want it
anne frank, homecoming queen
(originally published in Skyline Magazine Winter 06/07)
now that we’re here
in the place we fear the most
lacking the voice
to ever call this home
we’re whispers in the mouth of the door
we hide inside the walls
they’re coming in…
I’ll hold your hand
and the world
the world is a photograph
and the world
the world is under glass
and she knows where nothing is
the broken geometry of her star
and we know where nothing is
it rips the hearts from greeting cards
(we’ll use the words they waste
as long as we have them)
and the world
the world is a photograph
and the world
the world is under glass
we hide inside the walls
they’re coming in…
I’ll hold your hand
we’re butterflies and the door is ajar
louisa
(originally published in The Storyteller Oct/Nov/Dec 2005)
I bet you’re beautiful
before the mirror wakes up
before the sun fills its silver cup
what do you have up your sleeve
besides a bruise?
where would you be if you could choose?
and the hands move
mechanically
to apply make-up and remove sleep
and eyeshadow implies
some light from inside
and something in it’s way
(the days start like cars
in this parking lot life
we cough and crawl off
towards some distant light
and the cold smoke just hangs in the air
daring anyone half awake to attempt to care)
what do you have up your sleeve
but a bruise
baby where would you be if you could choose?
I bet you’re beautiful
before the mirror wakes up
by *******************@*****il.com“>Joe Quinn
Joe Quinn is a 34 year old American Poet. He has been published 60+ times in over 30 publications around the world. His poetry collections are available to purchase for $10 at lulu.com/spotlight/welcomehomeironlung and he can be followed at @joequinnpoetry on twitter or at facebook.com/joequinnpoetry
October 2014 | back-issues, fiction
When I turn my body inside-out I do it the same way you would a piece of clothing: by pulling the top through the bottom. In other words, I pull my head through my anus. Basically, I reach up with my arm through my anus and grab the top of the inside of my skull and pull everything down back through my anus. I do this in front of the body-length mirror I own so I can see what I look like inside-out, and what I discover after I’ve done all this—turned my body inside-out and all—is a man, another man, who looks nothing like me. The man—the man inside of me—is hypertrophiedly muscular and has a bald crown with two earmuffs of brown hair bookending his face. I am not muscular nor do I have a bald crown or two earmuffs of brown hair. Actually, what I suppose would be more accurate is the outside of me is not muscular nor has a bald crown or two earmuffs of brown hair, because, clearly, some part of me is muscular and does have a bald crown and two earmuffs of brown hair.
Every now and then I go further and turn the man inside of me’s body inside-out, and what I discover on the other side of him is a woman, a small Taiwanese woman. Neither I nor the man inside of me are Taiwanese. We are both white. Then I continue, turning the small Taiwanese woman inside-out, then the person inside of her, then the person inside the person inside of her, and so on, in search of the person I think I am, who must surely be inside of me somewhere, though, admittedly, I’ve yet to find him. Or her, for that matter.
by Trevor Fuller
Trevor Fuller is currently an MFA candidate in fiction at Wichita State University and a reader for the literary journal mojo.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
The Midnight of His Mind
As he speaks to me
Of his troubles,
Someone I know
Stands in a doorway
That connects two
Rooms: the past
And the future.
The past is painful
To look at,
And the future
Seems so
Far away,
But both
Are steeped in
Shadows where
A few lights
Softly flicker
And die away.
Ni Zan’s Remote Streams and Cold Pines
I.
Wandering far
From the city, I
Followed her,
Captivated
By her hips’
Graceful
Movements,
Until she ran
Too far ahead
Of me, for me
To find her
Anywhere.
II.
Instead, I come
To find autumn
Emptiness,
Sparse leaves,
Gently flowing
Streams, the broad
Expanse of the sky
Without clutter,
Calming. I point
To the mountain
In the distance.
I look away
For a moment,
And it’s gone.
The Dead Sparrow Patterns
Down the stairs. Out the door.
Dead sparrow. Time for work.
Back from work. Dead sparrow.
Up the stairs. The day is done.
The blue light of the morning.
On the sidewalk. Dead sparrow.
The red glow of the evening.
Home is near. Dead sparrow.
For days. Still dead. Still there.
The sparrow lies coldly on his side.
I suspect the weather confused him.
Sun one day. Snow the next.
I pity his poor decisions,
So like a person’s.
It makes me think. Of mistakes,
Of patterns of mistakes. In theory,
If one understands the patterns,
One will be able to perceive
The right time: to escape
The patterns. Of mistakes.
by Joshua Paul Bocher
Joshua Paul Bocher’s poetry has appeared in such journals as Illuminations, The Germ, and The East Coast Literary Review. He has degrees in writing and literature from Brown and Harvard. Previously, he lived abroad in Taiwan for two and a half years. Currently, he lives with his wife in Somerville, MA and works for non-profits in the Boston area.
