Mosquitoes, Al Udeid Air Force Base, Qatar / Joanna Grant
you slap us away
our lives nothing more
to you than little red smears
a warm weather hindrance
pests, you call us,
fever-bringers,
unclean suckers
of blood and swamp
but we too have eyes to see
and ears to hear the low buzz
of your man-made metal swarm
yes, our bite brings
the blood-boil,
the fever-shiver,
but your drones
bring the fire-flower,
the bomb-blossom,
the death-choke
in a coil of smoke
and yet you dare
call us the pestilence
Hatchlings / Judit Hollos
The seemingly unusual evolution strategy of sea turtles entails laying as many eggs as
possible, but once the mother has done her part, she „abandons” her nest on the beach and the
offsprings must fend for themselves to survive – a natural part of the life cycle they wade
through.
hatchlings climbing against the ocean
When I was a kid, my mom and dad used to know a man whose parents emigrated to America
after 1956. As they already had a couple of other children to take care of, they made the
decision of leaving their youngest in a city that was still grappling with demolished school
buildings and an uncertain future. I have no idea if our friend had ever seen his family again.
on the refuge, a family leaves
Early on in life, my great-grandmother was forced to learn to slackline on the unstable rope of
conditional love as her mother and father realized they were not able to take care of their large
brood. By the time she reached the tender age of four, in order to make sure she didn’t have to
grow up in poverty, they travelled with her up to the capital and left her in the care of a
wealthier couple who made her serving drinks in a pub at five in the morning.
their youngest behind
On Being Leavened / Zach Hauptman
put your hands in me, fine and dry
sifting out the hardened parts so that i am
soft and welcoming, absorptive in every manner
bring wetness to me, slow and carefully measured
taking the moisture into myself, i am
swelling, made sticky between your fingers
build me, smooth and thick, your hands pushing
at flesh, in flesh, encouraging my pillowy body
to firm up, to link up, to tighten into a gentle round
press your fingers deep inside, knuckles rolling
stretching me thin and then loosening so i will pull back
into myself, a roundel refined and redfined by your touch
cloak me with gracious fingers, a subtlety that leaves
me fresh but plain, leaves me to be decorated
by the simple indent of fingerprints
shadowboxing / Brice Maiurro
box
against
my
shadow
against
my
shadow
again
my
lies
again
wooden
lies–
my
wooden
box
Thresholds / Kimberly O’Connor
ThresholdsThe Quiet Places / Michael Schad
You may ask where are the quiet places?
The places where people don’t or can’t go.
There are many, but also few
times where quiet exist on the Island
and in comparison to the places like the Catskills,
or Adirondacks, or some far off place with nobody around,
the actuality of stillness and quiet dwindles.
Nevertheless, you will find solitude in places
like Sunken Meadow on a January evening
while waves filled with slushy ice slap frozen sand,
or in a canoe on the Connetquot river lazily sliding
under the highway while being engulfed by swathes of trees.
The quiet places are shielded by water
and remind us both of the awkwardness of life
on an island and the absurdity of seeking quietness
on an island with 8 million people seeking quietness
while being surrounded by a bay, a sound,
and an ocean of silence.
Human eye / Kashiana Singh
The human eye, like bulrushes in an ikebana arrangement, stands in watch; a lingering absence crystallizes upon the caramelized layers of my casserole, leaving warmth suspended in the air; outside my window, the sun-drenched pines stand in camouflage while microcosms marinate inside the emptiness of a terrarium, waiting to take the shape of water. Three million rivers of the world, like the labyrinthine paths of the ancient god Daedalus, all converge, seeking the sea’s embrace. Where once Theseus entered the maze to slay the Minotaur, we now wander, tethered only by our threads of denial.
amputated prophet—
the Minotaur’s voice echoes
in the salt of time.
thicket of death
like a demure bride
I submit
my lover
licks the salt of life
skinned skin
Thaw / Elizabeth Wolf
They didn’t lose any lambs.
Just the tips of two tiny ears on the
coldest night. In preparation for thaw
Brody spent his free time splitting logs
from woodpiles that had been drying under tarp
for months. They sold by the cord to neighboring farms
for the upcoming sugaring season. Brody made excellent tips
falling into bed early and sore night after night. Maybe, he allowed,
all this studying was a good idea after all. It sure would be sweet
to find an easier way to make a good living
