Issue #77

Jon Repetti

Stylite

Back in the brownstone by the hospital.
Back in that apartment where the windows
fogged over, even in August. Back

in the bed we read Ecclesiastes,
and you announced intentions to become a
minor Midwestern saint. Theodora, or

Amma Sarah. A Desert Mother. Dined on
grapes and lemongrass, approximating
hermitage. Sprinkled sand across the sheets.

Cut your hair but let your nails grow long
and twisted. I fed you black salt from my palm,
And counted sirens in the street.

When the rent came due, we discussed plans
to construct a pillar, for you, on which
to perch and mortify. Even found an architect,

investors, made bids on Syrian marble.
I dreamed you, robed and then disrobed,
in cathedral glass. Things, I thought, got out of hand.

Verdigris

Copper Buddha’s belly rubbed green
for luck, deposits iodine-umami
scent in palm lines, en route to last
quarter-slots in Vegas. My mother loves

their sound, coins falling like rain
on trailer roofs. Music at the other side
of noise, she called it. She called again,
last night, complained, The smoking section

has shrunken unacceptably, insultingly.
I tasted dirty pennies through the phone.
Recalled the Buddha’s navel. How in dreams

I’d crawl inside it and emerge after three days,
soaked in verdigris with pockets full of silver
dollars. And how I emptied them at her feet.

Jon Repetti is a PhD candidate in English at Princeton University, where he is completing a dissertation on American literary naturalism, radical empiricism, and psychoanalysis. His work has appeared in Paperbark, Moss Puppy, and elsewhere.

Penelope Scambly Schott

BECAUSE THE EARTH IS SLOWING DOWN

the sun sets for longer and longer;
it stains the house fronts orange.

From a secret cave in the Caucasus
an archer’s perfectly crafted arrow

has been flying for centuries. Even
the briefest poppies go on blooming,

while the crack in the dry lake bed
stays thinner than one wire plucked

on a balalaika by an old man weeping
because he can’t keep time. Consider

the time it takes to grab one grenade
out from the crowded playground,

or how I yanked a mouse by the tail
out of the long mouth of the dog,

off the hot arrow of her tongue —
you won’t need to love me any longer

than that.

Penelope Scambly Schott’s work has been published in Adanna, American Poetry Review, CALYX, Cider Press Review, Connecticut River Review, Evening Street Review, Georgia Review, Gyroscope, Miramar Magazine, Panoply, Passager Journal, Paterson Literary Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. She is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry.

Paris Rosemont

i crave the forbidden before i even learn his name

Paris Rosemont is an Asian-Australian poet. Debut poetry collection: Banana Girl.

Instagram: @msparisrose

Facebook: www.facebook.com/parisrosemont

Rich Murphy

Presence and Mind

In a world where bereaving survives seeing,
one mourns moments when sharing seemed love.
Past coupling still breathes in bodies
while the learning experience ranges across a lifetime
though leaning into the light advised.

Ache clouds over a blinding shame illusion
as victim or perpetrator or gray shades
bow to the unconscious connection to quantum.
Cosmic warp, current social convention, immaturity
crumble in a permanence dream in the human.

As evolution presents and withdraws opportunity,
embarrassment wastes with conscious self-pity:
A sadomasochist all rolled into one.

Only resources tapped from Wisdom Mountain
assures against paralysis.

The energy run off cleaves into a fuel tank
for determined desire only should a horizon grow.
All the needles point at purpose and drive:
Ouch, ouch! The carrot and stick also marry.

Rich Murphy’s First Aid was published this summer by Resource Publications at Wipf and Stock, which has also published Meme Measure (2022); Space Craft (2021); and Practitioner Joy (2020). His poetry has won The Poetry Prize at Press Americana twice (Americana, 2013, and The Left Behind, 2021) and the Gival Press Poetry Prize for Voyeur (2008).

Anna Weaver

the way Li-Young Lee loved a peach

after From Blossoms

i want a lover who savors
not just the sweet

but also the dust that lingers
after the long trip

from orchard
to hand

a man careful not
to bruise

but also eager
to bite

and willing to struggle as he tries
to describe

all that passes from fingers
to tongue

one who finds such delight
in the effort

that he insists
no matter the years

and excepting only
my name

on never using the same word
twice

Anna Weaver writes as a former soldier, a lover of flatlands, and a woman “with loyalties scattered over the landscape.” Her poems have appeared in Connotation Press, O Dark-Thirty, One, and elsewhere. She’s performed her poetry in 37 states and counting and hosts a vibrant open mic in Raleigh, NC.

Suzanne Kelsey

the day I saw you

you stood close to me

you didn’t say anything
but I knew
you saw me too

you ran your fingers
up the back of your neck and through your hair

I could smell your perfume
I could tell you wanted me to

your eyes found my mouth
my lips
my smile

you smiled, too

I wanted to say something
do something
but your number was called
your order was ready
you had to go

you turned
walked away
left

and I,
I watched
I waited
I wanted

then,
as you opened the door,
as you stepped through,
you looked over your shoulder

when your eyes found mine
you ran your free hand
up the back of your neck and through your hair

I moved to follow
but my number was called
my order was ready
I turned, blinked, and in that
briefest of moments,

you had gone

Suzanne Kelsey. Writer. Adventurer. Wine Drinker. Permitted to live with her 17-year-old cat, Miss Poo. Published, or forthcoming, in Bindweed Magazine, Night Picnic, The Chamber Magazine, 1807, Bartleby, and Children, Churches, & Daddies. Born and raised in Arbutus, Maryland.

Annalisa Hansford

Ode to a Girl From New Hampshire

“When Geryon was little he loved to sleep but even more he loved to wake up.” — Anne Carson

I love love but even more I love not being
             alone. Waking up to the sound of your

voice blooming like a bubblegum pink
             geranium. In the morning, our bedsheets

damp with sweat and desire. All around us,
             summer throwing up ache in the form

of humidity. I have wanted this for so long.
             To worship you with no one watching.

To rest my head on your chest and listen
             to my favorite sound: your body keeping

you alive. How your heart beats to the rhythm
             of longing. When I am with you, I forget

about my shards of grief for teeth, how for so long
             the only thing I knew how to love were my ghosts.

With you, my loneliness evaporates into a language
             I have forgotten how to speak. I am so lucky.

Everyone wishes for you but all you wish for
             is me. No one has ever stolen the moon

just to see me smile. No one has ever poured
             their sadness into a locket for me. A piece

of you that is always with me, even in my dreams.

Annalisa Hansford (they/them) studies Creative Writing at Emerson College. Their poetry appears or is forthcoming in The West Review, The Lumiere Review, and Heavy Feather Review. They are the editor-in-chief of hand picked poetry and a poetry editor for The Emerson Review and Hominum Journal.

Maria Tan

Ground and grounds

Maria Tan is a Fort Wayne based creator. She spends her time reading, running, hiking, playing cello, and trying to squeeze in some writing. She loves WS Merwin and Whitman.