Every fourth courgette is spiralised,
I read in The Guardian.
Meanwhile I take down my china bowls,
my bendy spatulas, my bi-numeral scales,
my unlabelled jars of this and that,
my flours of many kinds (the thrill
of a light loaf with rye flour
and sour dough, a recent triumph)
my thumb and finger rub soft butter
through silky flour, patiently,
motes hang in the sunlight.
Grams and kilos would have flummoxed them,
but I am my mother, my grandmother too,
a conduit for simple knowledge,
the temperature, the place on the shelf,
length of cooking, the way to test the rise,
what seems like wisdom is merely repetition.
Today I have a visitor, an observer,
my daughter-in-law, who spiralises courgettes.
Vivien Jones – Her first poetry collection was About Time, Too (2010). In that year she also won the Poetry London Prize. Her second poetry collection was Short of Breath (2014). She is one of three editors of ‘Southlight’, a literary journal in south-west Scotland. She also writes plays.
I’ve scraped the last remnants of a crispy dinner
from the pan and crushed the crumbs like snow between my fingers.
I’ve blown out the candles, kneeling too closely
and letting the wax dangerously coat the tips of my eyelashes.
I’ve pressed my head against the empty dining table
in a prayer that this will be the last of our disastrous last suppers.
I’ve mouthed a promise to myself, like CPR exhaled,
that I will stop trying to resuscitate our broken and tangled sweetness.
I’ve flung the dishes against the wall and knelt among
the collage of broken shards to remind myself how much he hurts.
I’ve forced myself to hold steady against the front door
and draw the chain across the lock, in case I lose my nerve, to keep him out.
Sarah Clayville is a high school writing teacher and freelance editor. Her fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have been published in such journals as The Threepenny Review, StoryChord, Central PA Magazine, and Mothers Always Write. Find more of her writing at SarahSaysWrite.com.
My boss likes to hug me, which is awkward
because I don’t want to hug him.
He hides behind his agitator grin
and his salary smile.
I would like to take his nothing bonus
and spit it into his eyes.
Watch his frown fade into disgust
and laugh at his now squeezing release.
When we meet I can smell his dis-honesty,
rich as piss. It reeks of receipts.
His false words take time to settle
and I can’t hold it all in. But I have to.
My chair wobbles and the shape of him bends
like the magic trick when you shake a pen.
I squint my eyes
and it looks like he is smiling.
I open them wide and he is too bright.
I close them and he disappears.
I take my mug and throw it from the window.
I take him and throw him from the window.
I take his fucking receipts and throw them from the window.
I close the window and throw myself through it.
Stephen Daniels is the editor of Amaryllis Poetry. His poetry has been published in numerous magazines and websites. His debut pamphlet ‘Tell Mistakes I Love Them’ was published in 2017 by V. Press. Find out more at www.stephenkirkdaniels.com
We can so easily … find that we are trapped, as in a dream
and die there, without ever waking up – Rainer Maria Rilke
In a factory park on the outskirts
of Yantai, I used to walk around talking
to God: Father, who art in heaven.
And you, my earthly father, I used to
walk along Heavenly Mountain Road
with you, talking to the charcoal sky,
the windbreaks, the dark winter
tide. Like Rilke, I used to fear
I wasn’t really living, and on the night
of my first seizure, I knew I had to die
to bring you back, but I weary of waiting:
If you aren’t coming, I will take
your place at the kitchen counter, pick
paper jackets off your cloves of garlic.
I will slice onion under running
water and scoop out the seeds of baked
spaghetti squash. I will feed
your family in your stead.
I will feed your godforsaken children.
Cameron Morse taught and studied in China. Diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2014, he is currently a third-year MFA candidate at UMKC and lives with his wife, Lili, and newborn son Theodore Ian in Blue Springs, Missouri. His first collection Fall Risk is published by Glass Lyre Press.
No belt will take the holes, so he has string.
He’s loose, unravelling in the shoplight
against an arch of Gucchi,
pink stomach folds squinting where his button snapped.
Taxis jeer. The bus’s guppy door
won’t take him. He edges shoppers from the bench,
stirring with plastic soles the sludge of wrappers
where pigeons flatter him for crumbs.
Adjusting his crown from Burger King
and rictus grin he shoos them into order,
commands their bobs and curtseys
before they wing it into the silver sky
searching the breadcrumb trail.
And as they fly he wipes at greasespots
on the ripped strip of a Polaroid
bent in the pocket of his heart.
Noel Williams edits Antiphon (antiphon.org.uk), is Associate Editor for Orbis (www.orbisjournal.com) and occasionally mentors fellow writers. His poems have been published widely, won a few prizes, and he reviews for several magazines. His first collection was Out of Breath (Cinnamon Press, 2014). A pamphlet, Point Me at the Stars will appear in 2018.
I caught you disposing of a dead bird –
remembered you once buried a stray cat
we’d made a pet of, before I got home –
so many useful little censorships.
I don’t believe I have surrendered nor
set back sixty years of feminism
if I admit, in this poem, right now,
that I fell for you all over again.
I could have written about fate or God
whatever unseen forces plot our course.
How we don’t get to glimpse very often
what it is that eases our way, shields us.
But let’s call it love, identify how
we shelter one another day to day.
Maureen Curran is from Donegal, Ireland. Her poems have appeared in Boyne Berries, Crannóg, Envoi, Poetry Bus, Revival, the Stony Thursday Book, Skylight 47, online at Honest Ulsterman, Lake Poetry, Southword, Spontaneity, and Word Bohemia. She blogs with her group here and tweets @maureenwcurran
I read that Kepler is in critical condition.
Should a space telescope have the right to die?
And why does McDonald’s only sell
Happy Meals? Depressed kids need to eat too.
I got my DNA kit results this morning. Turns out
I’m mostly white, but one fourth cynical,
and a ninth about to cry. A student brought up
that old joke about majoring in underwater
basket weaving. What is that? Am I the last to know?
He said baskets are woven underwater because
the wood is easier to bend. At first, I heard
“world” instead of “wood.” The DNA test also
revealed I’m 20% deaf, but mostly dumb.
At the bookstore they used to call me “Rock Star.”
It never bothered me until now. Back then I thought
I would be a rock star. Nothing hurt back then.
Not even rejection. Rejection was just action.
Now action carries a cane and loses its train
of thought sometimes. What is a train of thought
anyway? What kind of tracks are needed for it?
Is there a caboose? A bar? Does it require
reservations? Are there assigned seats or do I
just get on? Will a conductor ask to take my ticket?
What will I see when I look out the windows of a train
of thought? How fast can it go? Where do I
wait for it? What time does it arrive?
Clint Margrave is the author of Salute the Wreckage (2016) and The Early Death of Men (2012), both published by NYQ Books. His work has been featured on Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac, as well as in New York Quarterly, Rattle, Cimarron Review, Verse Daily, The American Journal of Poetry, Word Riot, and Ambit (UK), among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA.