Issue #20
Jaime Urco
(translated by Toshiya Kamei)
binnacle
when I left home I had no idea where I was headed I just knew I had to leave at night
my journey had typical accidents of the landscape at a bend in the road I thought I had found love – it was only a bird like me lost in the desert dunes
soon my hair and beard grew and I talked about the future of a house built on a high peak
I wanted to become an average Joe who drinks his soup in the morning arrives home late at night and takes out the garbage on time
there was no hell or heaven only the music that reminded me of the south and the apple of my eye
freedom was the blind moon without a cause or an end
bitácora
cuando salí de casa sabía poco de caminos a lo sumo que debía irme de noche
la travesía tuvo accidentes propios del paisaje en un recodo del camino creí haber encontrado el amor: era tan sólo un pájaro como yo perdido en las dunas del desierto
pronto las barbas y el pelo crecieron hablé del futuro de una casa construida en un pico alto
quise convertirme en el ciudadano común que toma su sopa por las mañanas llega tarde por la noche y saca la basura a su debido tiempo
no hubo infierno ni tampoco cielo únicamente una música que me recordaba el sur y a la niña de mis ojos
la libertad fue la luna ciega sin causa ni fin
Born in 1952 in Jauja, Peru, Jaime Urco currently lives in Lima, where he teaches at the Universidad de Lima. His books include the poetry collections Silbando una canción feliz (1985), Retrato en blanco y negro (1986), and Poca luz en el bar y otros poemas (1995).
Ifeoluwa Ayandele
Friends
Two friends swallowed
their stars; shut out the night;
walked out on life’s ellipsis
& undressed their home.
Their home was a laced
lattice of how love couldn’t
fill in the gaps & their front
door was hinged with: let go.
Ifeoluwa Ayandele studied English at the University of Lagos, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Kin Poetry Journal, Brittle Paper, African Writer, Kalahari Review, Tuck Magazine, Best “New” African Poets 2017 Anthology, Africa, UK, and Ireland: Writing Politics and Knowledge Production Volume 1, and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria.
Juliette Sebock
Quadrille
I.
Sharp-line,
Spike-turn,
Pivot,
Don’t touch.
II.
Pretzel-knot,
Cross-and-spin,
Afraid to fall,
Caught.
III.
Box-step,
Spin-and-duck,
Ring around,
They all fall down.
IV.
Slow it down
Spin around.
Look
And stop.
Juliette Sebock is the author of Mistakes Were Made and has poems forthcoming in a variety of publications. She is the founding editor of Nightingale & Sparrow and runs a lifestyle blog, For the Sake of Good Taste.
Linnea Cooley
Halloween
I meet a girl with skeleton gloves
and bone-white skin
She whispers that
the Wizard in the hallway
has a pocket full of LSD
and…Dexedrine?
Dexedrine. The chalky
caplet sticks to my gullet
paper walls crumple
into origami earthquake rubble
the girl with skeleton gloves
wipes the vomit from my lips
and tucks the strands of hair
behind my ears
liquid meth-am-what-i-mean
is dripping from the ceiling
the cold tile of the bathroom
floor, a werewolf howls
at the neon bar sign
on the wall, Mario and Luigi
smash bottles against the
coffee table, a Zombie coughs
his organs gurgle, murmur, then explode
gore rains down on the three stooges
playing beer pong in the mist
the ghosts chatter and
the Elvis Presleys screech
blood puddles on the driveway
it’s too dark to see the stars
Linnea Cooley is an undergraduate poet at the University of Maryland.
Clifford Saunders
The Dark Saints
The saints who live among us
can’t let go of doom.
They’re all wrapped in flak jackets
and talk about black rot being
the actual destination of humanity.
Prisoners for life, they don
gas masks and return to trenches
filled with memories
of last year’s inferno,
of the wrong lady in the casket.
Visions of gridlock
dance in their heads
like a busy emergency room.
They babble about a bubble,
the one they’ll be chasing
across pulpits until spring.
Alone, they can be extraordinarily
powerful. Beside themselves
with grim miles, they copy well
the dependable expertise
of walking barefoot on grass.
They think we’re all spraying water
on their menus of death,
but they’re not seeing it all.
On a hot June day, they hobble
into a resurrection city of forgiveness
and live like hoboes. They eat ants,
looking for more attention to detail.
They eat, while we know silence.
Cliff Saunders has an MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Arizona. His poems have appeared recently in Pedestal Magazine, West Trade Review (out of print), Pinyon, The Ibis Head ReviewM, CURA, San Pedro River Review, and Cardinal Sins. He lives in Myrtle Beach, where he serves as co-coordinator of The Litchfield Tea & Poetry Series.
C.M. Crockford
King
Elvis
Dreams of trains,
Shining black cars.
Elvis
Couples –
Tender.
Devoted.
Strange.
Elvis
Speaks in serenity.
Elvis
Dresses
In
Bright pink pants.
Hot colored jackets.
Elvis is a Man.
Elvis is a Witch.
Elvis
Dies
Spent.
Elvis becomes
The Hero.
Elvis becomes
The Villain.
Elvis becomes –
Too big.
Elvis lives
In headlights,
In movies,
In Cadillacs,
In open roads.
Elvis
Rides
In long winding trains.
C.M. Crockford is a writer living in Philadelphia, PA. His poetry and stories have been published in Paradise in Limbo, Ethos Literary Journal, and Oddball Magazine, among others. In his spare time he reads, watches dark comedies, and co-hosts the podcast The Barn.