Ghosts in a Black Girl Throat has been removed at the request of the author.
Journal
Annie Stenzel
Reminder
Do not forget to chronicle with gratitude the fox
we saw, barred owl we heard, the unobstructed stars
that blessed the Green Gulch path we walked
along, our bodies replete with wholesome fare
prepared for us by the aspirants.
Three days shocked by the reek of smoke
have fed awareness of how fast the Fates
conspire against a place, obliterate
the hubris of its occupants. We don’t
dare say what’s next? because
just as the world is round, so is the circle
of catastrophe, which means that only
a random number of infinitesimal points
along the circumference separates my eventual
doom from yours, or theirs, or anyone’s.
Annie Stenzel‘s collection, The First Home Air After Absence, was published by Big Table in 2017. Her poems have appeared in many online and print journals in the U.S. and U.K. She lives within sight of the San Francisco bay. For more, visit www.anniestenzel.com
Pepper Trail
This Fleeting Fire
Once in the Marquesas, Nuku Hiva it was,
I wandered away after the tribal dancing,
before the bargaining for souvenirs.
I wanted, I don’t know, to be other
than I was, a tourist off a boat.
I wanted the world untouched,
and me unseen.
The beach was empty but for footprints,
large and small – a father and child,
these fish bones the scraps of their meal.
Overhead, the palm fronds scraped in the wind.
The entrance to the lagoon was narrow,
white breakers and then the blue forever.
To see only that, and expect nothing…
Two boys rode by on an ancient horse,
laughed and waved. I was not unwelcome.
This was the miracle. I was not unwelcome.
Soon the others gathered, holding carvings,
manta rays and tiki gods of polished wood.
We climbed into the waiting zodiacs,
were carried away, back to the white ship.
At sunset, I stood at the rail,
a gin and tonic sweating in my hand,
my face lit by the sun falling in the west
toward the three dark mountains
that held the village against the sea.
I pictured the horse tied up, asleep,
the boys at their dinner of taro and fish.
What will they remember of this day?
The dancing, the noisy crowd, the quiet man?
Were they glad to be only themselves again,
or did their minds follow our departing ship?
I imagined them looking out to sea,
catching the flash from our distant windows –
their thoughts, and mine, held in this fleeting fire.
Klamath Marsh, Two Views
Through the mist over the April marsh
I see the cranes dancing
But there are no cranes
Heads thrown back, wings thrown back
They are not
They prance with awkward, stately grace
They do not
In the budding willows along the river
The blackbirds raise a raucous chorus
They do
Beyond, black Angus stand scattered
Without motion, boxcars of beef
The cattle, blackbirds, myself
Held in this narrow plane of focus
In another, the cranes
Three Modoc hiding in the willows
A grizzly bear standing where the Angus stand
Disturbed by the bear, the cranes rise
Rise higher, disappear into the west
The Modoc stand, their hunt spoiled
Move carefully away, watching the bear
I do not see them go
I do
Pepper Trail’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Borderlands, and other publications. His collection, Cascade-Siskiyou: Poems, was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry. He lives in Ashland, Oregon, where he works for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
John Van Dreal
Artist John Van Dreal has received considerable recognition through regional and national exhibitions and collections. Born in Colorado and raised in California, he has been a resident of Oregon for 30 years where he lives with his wife, dog, and cat. Van Dreal is also a writer, musician, school psychologist, and nationally recognized leader in violence prevention.
Ferral Willcox
Red Velvet
In the time of red velvet, rain came
and left us with silk in hand,
lost in insect thought.
Cake and pie flashed their signs,
night, infected with contests, spun out its choices
on dream desks piled high.
Thread the needle through the eye,
silk in hand to catch the tears
before they dry into insect thought.
Now, thread the needle again
and plunge it in red velvet.
Consider skin and how it’s lost
to conscious thought, caught up in cake or pie,
sweet choices piled high,
piled high.
And when the world cannot pretend
to have its silk in hand
for mending red velvet sky
into cake and pie,
turn to dreams that hide dark choices
in reams and reams of insect thought,
and thread the needle through the eye.
Ferral Willcox is a U.S. born poet currently living in Pokhara, Nepal. Ferral’s work can be found in Per Contra, Peacock Journal, consis, Calamaro, and elsewhere. She was a featured poetry performer in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival, and she is a regular contributor to the Plath Poetry Project.
Lalia Wilson
Once in the Desert Primeval
Once in the desert primeval, not the forest, wind blowing,
susurrations of moving sand, life was a struggle.
All day mothers attended babies, campfires, and homey tasks.
Fathers squinted into the wind, ignoring petrified fish bones.
The ever-blue sky was too open, the land was too dry.
Only Eagle and Crow could see most of the game.
All day mothers attended babies, campfires, and homey tasks.
Did Raven watch the two laughing boys attempting to ride a crippled antelope?
All day mothers attended babies, campfires, and homey tasks.
Raven and Coyote sheltered, watching the sunset over the three sacred mountains.
Coyote could hide anywhere, but Raven also succeeded in concealing himself,
something seemingly impossible for a large black bird.
Together Coyote and Raven spent the day
creating puzzles and mischief for the people.
All day mothers attended babies, campfires, and homey tasks.
Fathers returned with game: a large tortoise to roast in the purple fire.
Lalia Wilson, an independent, integral thinker, has resided in East Tennessee with her family for over thirty years, a contrast to her youth in which she lived in six other states, a U.S. territory, and three states in Germany. She has degrees from California, Connecticut, and New York.
