Journal

Diamonds and Serpents

I used to think I was blessed,
But I know now that I am cursed.
People would call me crazy
Especially those wretched souls who live along the swamp
And cry out in the middle of the night
For rice, fried fat, okra, anything–
You can have all your heart desires with diamonds dropping from your mouth.
Foolishly I thought so too.
I made the mistake of speaking to a gentleman on a horse.
He watched diamonds fall on the ground
Didn’t matter that I wasn’t particularly fair.
Beneath that scorching sun, he got off his horse and proposed.
On account of my skin, I knew I wouldn’t get a better offer.
He put his hand under my chin as I said, “yes.”
A rare pink diamond landed softly in his hands.
The wedding was small and coldly private.
Truth is he wanted to keep our marriage a secret.
With my diamonds, he built the largest plantation on the island.
To keep me still, he brings me gifts from all over the world.
My “thank you’s,” just cushion his pocket.
I spend my days hidden in a gilded cage,
My thoughts written down on white muslin.
At night, I listen to my husband and his women–
I pray for my sister’s gift, even for a day.

Tiffany Buck is a former librarian. She lives in the foothills of Appalachia. Her poems have appeared in Rabble Lit, the San Pedro River Review, and Poetry Breakfast.

To Be the House

to be that water
in the ocean
to be that house that
is a tiding to be that
welling of a water worth
and weaving as a jacket kept
and keeping as a sleeve
calling all the angels’ shares

to be that house
and be that tiding
cold and over linens made
to be that cup and be
that colding called
and colding in each shade
of Sunday and the slant light coiling
basement windows back to noon

you are the breath that’s
pocket tucked and lined
for sleep in each the habit’s
hammock sleeping here
the jasper noon and kept

Corinne Dekkers is a first year MFA candidate in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. She reads tarot cards and watches the creek in her spare time.

[i wake to my own]

 

[the best wounds]

 

Looking at Andrew Wyeth’s “Squall”

I thought there could be nothing more chilling
than Hopper’s “Room by the Sea,” that white door opening
to waves in a house hovering over a geometry of water,
the pale-green walls, brown floor, red settee and polygon
of light in the back room its only hints of refuge.
But in Wyeth’s “Squall,” an even fainter hope slips away —
the path of gray steppingstones through a door
offering no escape from the one window’s ravage of sea,
an unassailable sky and rolling froth defying
the day’s weak light along the sill. Just a pale wall between
holds out against the storm, a slicker hooked stiff
beside a scarf with binoculars dangling from
a well-used strap that must have sparked the urge
to see, once — some scan of horizon with an eye for distance,
patches of blue, the blur of fleeing gulls.

 

Steve Dieffenbacher’s full-length book of poems, “The Sky Is a Bird of Sorrow,” was published by Wordcraft of Oregon in 2012. The collection won a ForeWord Reviews 2013 Bronze Award for poetry. His work also has been published in anthologies, chapbooks and magazines. He lives in Medford, Oregon.

Lovers in a Dangerous Time

‌     The earth rolled toward the sun. Some birds thought it a sign they should
thrash and caw. Open the window, close it. Because I am reactionary, I will
wait for bathrobed neighbours to water their lawns.
‌     “You say you know nothing.”
‌     “Where is this coming from before bacon?”
‌     “Never said it would be pleasant.”
‌     At cross purposes, we never know where the conversation will take
us. For now the nook demands our presence as the bacon sings its song.
‌     “Ever wonder where the plastic jockeys went?”
‌     “What do you mean? Were they a thing?”
‌     “Like plastic flamingos.”
‌     “I liked those. Not garden gnomes.”
‌     “Name your favorite breakfast cereal.”
‌‌     “Hm, Count Chocula.”
‌     “You’re kidding.”
‌     Whenever I feel like spitting out the truth my lips go dry and then I feel
as though I must lick them instead of saying what is pressing up behind the
teeth. If we were all married to the truth, we’d find ourselves living in a city
full of liars.
‌     “People make me sick.”
‌     “In general, yes, but particular cases hold more gravity.”
‌     “I disagree completely, but never let me go.”

Salvatore Difalco‘s work has appeared in a variety of print and online formats. He splits his time between Toronto and Sicily.

Ninety Two

He thinks about this:

He does ok.
Puts 92 in his car
(a Lexus)
(well, a ten year old Lexus).
Listens to KMHD, 89.1
on the FM dial. All jazz, all the time.
It’s public radio, so
he makes sure to pay his annual fees
even doubles them, because he can.
Because he should.
Has the donation swag to prove it. A
sticker on his Lexus, a cap,
a coffee mug.
All with monikers that read
KMHD Jazz Radio.
Quality programming from
a community station. His people.
His music. No satellite.

Buys local, gives to the shelter, doesn’t hate.
Gets angry when people do, especially when they
hate the gays.  Has friends who are.
And
he’s passionate that they should be free to
love whom they want. Just as he is.
He’s not gay. But wouldn’t care if he was.
His wife might.

Works in public service, but as an
Administrator.
So he
does ok.
Puts 92 in his car. Safety is important.
That’s why the Lexus.

That and quality. That’s why the 92…
Premium.
Quality and safety.
House, car, furniture, art, music, clothing,
kitchen utensils, bed. All quality. All safe.
Been at his job for
two decades. Has tenure. Safety. And
he’s been told…
his work is
exemplary.

Still, he thinks,
he’d walk away.
Wishes he could walk away.
Wishes he could
at least
consider walking away. Or
doing it over? Yeah, if he could.
No safety, no tenure, less quality. Just 87.
But indulged
in playing jazz music,
not just listening to it.
Making art,  not just buying it.
Maybe,
drink too much. Some drugs.
A bar fight.
(He’d only been in one fight. In high school.
Sitting next to his friend… a black friend.  Another kid shouted
a racist remark. Goddamnit, that pissed him off… he hated that word.
He hit that kid so hard! Still got his ass kicked though.
But oddly, it felt good… and he remembered.)
Maybe
Flop on a friend’s couch.
A weekend in jail. A week in jail. Maybe end up
doing a little time in the joint? That’s how
he’d say it… because it
sounds cool. But
that’s too much, too long, too far.

No, just day to day. Week to week. No promise, no
safety. A different kind of quality.
Living big, dreaming small.

That’s what he thinks about.

He’d never last.

That Lexus needs 92

 

Two and a half minutes,
outside of Kraftworks Taphouse, early July, 2016

These are the words he used to describe his discomfort… “I’m better when I sit there,” pointing to a set of chairs, backed up to the pub’s exterior wall.

An attentive woman tipped her head to the side, narrowed her eyes and nodded, stepping forward.

They sat, her expression suggesting uncertainty.

But I knew.

I knew the moment I noticed him approach the sidewalk seating and sensed that he had noticed me first, and everyone else in the immediate location, assessing us within the casual, situational elements of walls, windows, furniture, dress, drunkenness, gesture, and relaxed behavior.

I knew when I noted the ink, resting on skin pulled tight over well-defined muscle, peering out from under his left, short sleeve… the lower third of the gray-green letters composing the words, Leave No Man Behind.

I knew when he approached the tables with a slight limp in his left leg, and again when he turned slightly to scan the seating options and the people sitting, including me. I caught the trace of a pink scar spanning a third of his skull, camouflaged by his auburn hair, cut high and tight.

I knew when he sat, and the woman, sensing his discomfort, placed her hand in his and he half smiled, half sighed in return.

I knew when our eyes met and I slightly smiled, nodding a subtle bow of gratitude and apology. He nodded back, then tugged from his pocket a pair of aviator sunglasses, too reflective for me to see his eyes or the direction of his glance, and rested them on the bridge of his nose.

 

John Van Dreal has found that writing is a way to avoid meeting expectations: “John, a little help with the grocieries?” “Uh, nope. Writing.” As a result, very little is expected of him; that is why he is a successful writer.