Dead Boys I Have Known: My First Dead Lover / Joanna Grant
They say you fell down
a mountain crevasse
when your grip slipped
just shy of the summit
somehow I still feel
after all these years
your hot breath on my
neck our commingled sweat
still see your head thrown back
as you got close to the edge
to terror pity ecstasy
the last fatal plunge
schema of a decommissioned divine automata / Zach Hauptman
do not call me a golem
i was not made to protect
i was holy breath in a whirlwind
set apart from no thing
by the in-drawing of sacred breath
to make space
draw in : tzim
emptiness : tzum
here the only bounded place
cradles the fetus of me
replicates whole oceans to drown in
until i take the ocean into myself
do not call me dybbuk
my angry soul cleaves only to itself
i too cling to this world inside a world
world inside the empty space inside
the every no thing who’s name is unsayable
draw in : tzim
emptiness : tzum
when you build a home
leave a hole for me to escape
beyond this point human souls
cannot remain intact
the poet as painter / Brice Maiurro
the poet has no brush.
the poet draws their longing
across the canvas but
there is no proof that a mark
was made. they may say
that they have painted the sky
but there is no sky to see.
there is no blue to compare to
the blue of the sky we know.
the poet has no palette.
there is no wet pile of colors
to mix to the right shade of fire
or to find the exact shade of
her ripe strawberry blonde hair.
his deep charcoal eyes. their bowl
of vividly orange oranges.
the poet has a canvas yes.
& this is where the madness begins.
the poet dips their non-brush
into their non-paint stirring
& stirring until something shifts.
something. the poet attempts
to paint something. they set their
non-brush down. dip their fingertips
into their non-paint & they begin
to move themselves across
the canvas & when at last they have
maybe moved themselves it is then
that they step back. take a breath.
let their dirty hands rest.
review their work from a good distance
& when the non-paint has finally dried
they find a lover a critic a passerby
& ask them–what do you think.
what do you think be honest.
they hope the lover the critic the passerby
will turn to them & say–it’s like nothing
nothing i’ve ever come across before.
Changeling / Kimberly O’Connor
In order to protect privacy, we shall refer to the child as Child. Child was referred at age 8 by Parents who suspect a demon replaced their daughter with Child.
Presenting concerns include dreaminess, secrecy, and an unnatural affection for language. Instead of cavorting on playground, Child sits in shade with head bowed to books. 3-5x/wk Child insists on unorthodox interpretations of song lyrics, such as that Neil Young’s “Southern Man” is not celebratory of Southern manhood or that Sunday school hymn “Obedience” [“Obedience is/ the very best way/ to show that you/ believe”] inhibits freedom of thought.
The following standardized assessments were administered: DReMe-13; BlkSHp-78; P03t. Child presented as cooperative yet detached from Testing. Eye contact was appropriate except when Child was observed reading Tester’s observational notes upside down from Tester’s notebook. Child frequently engages in expressive language, often using outlandish vocabulary [“indigenous;” “Nova Scotia;” “almond butter”].
Scores are reported as standard scores, percentiles, and qualitative descriptors.
DReMe-13: raw score 542; 87%
BlkSHp-78: raw score 666; 89%
P03t: 333; 99%
Results: Child is a Class Two Daydreamer. Changeling status is inconclusive.
Recommendations include: Expose Child to daytime television such as “The Young and the Restless” and “Cops.” Forbid Child to read during meals. Enroll Child in tennis or high diving; avoid activities such as softball, which allows for excessive woolgathering in outfield. Impress upon Child the belief that Neil Young would have been Confederate if he lived during the American Civil War.
Ongoing monitoring is suggested.
Two Types of Pigs / Michael Schad
For weeks now the pigs
had been roaming the orchard
eating the fallen apples and peaches
until the trees started showing signs
of wear – falling down, broken branches, and
the occasional uprooted sapling.
There is a reason you don’t let pigs run
a muck in an orchard.
Their noses are as strong as a digging bar
beautifully designed to turn and churn
the soil for bugs, roots, and cooling their bodies.
The farm pigs were domesticated,
kind enough you could ride if you pleased,
easy enough to cajole to the lower pasture
to save the orchard.
A different type of pig lives in the wilds of South Carolina
where my friend Tanner was raised,
his brother had trapped two wild beasts
in a cage built from old pallets
they lunged at a poorly placed hand
and always looked for escape.
Apparitions / Kashiana Singh
summer meadow..
clothesline fading into
a frame
shattered life —
carving a pumpkin
into emptiness
grass blades
pointing skyward-
cloudless
One Long Wondrous Day in 1974 / Elizabeth Wolf
Her foster father barking questions
through odd hours of the night, or
his wife waking her for tea poured in
empty plastic cups, crouching by the
dollhouse, whispering secrets spilled
from wiccan spirits, lightening bolts, rain;
Sad Girl was tired, in her long bones,
between each hidden beat of her heart,
behind her guarded eyes. Her boyfriend
whisked her away, in a stolen car
the color of peanut butter: to a
pond, edged in ice, dirty snow subsiding
in the parking lot; a few hits of this & that
and they floated, giggling, through trails,
sang Crosby Stills & Nash in an abandoned
church, sun slanting through stained glass,
dust and long forsaken prayers swirling
overhead in sacred space; Sad Girl
babbled all the wisdom crashing down,
sitting in a circle at group, other foster kids
dumbstruck or snickering; skipped out
for dinner with her teacher, discarding
McDonalds wrappers and kiddie toys
from the front seat of his funky family
wood-paneled station wagon; finally,
finally, that night, she slept.
