Journal

I Want Something Tangible

–after Arianne True

When I wake up in the night
and the hundred-year-old tree
in front of my house is on fire—
red orange light pouring
into my bedroom window.
I want something more substantial
than longing or nostalgia.
I think of my childhood fear—
my parents are not home
and my house is on fire.
Even worse, it is my parents
themselves that are burning
laid out in their marital bed.
Some of us are raised by wolves,
the way they circle each other
and bay at the moon.
My grandchildren want flattened
pennies. These days there’s a machine
than does that, not the train
passing by every three AM.
My childhood inferno burns.
After the firemen and one firewoman
have come and gone—
the smell of accelerant lingers,
sputtering in the back of my throat.
I remember my parents, Adam and Eve,
beautiful and naked—
no murderous brother in sight.
‌

Today Joyous as a Court of Kinglets

I am the blossom blooming in late autumn,
drinking in sweet rain—
I am the mountain, the still green clover,
I am the lover nestled in our pillowy bed
I am breakfast,
the first egg of morning
yolk golden and glorious
I am food on the Thanksgiving table
warm from the oven
after days of preparation,
the tart tang of cranberries,
white rolls tender on the inside
yams doused with butter
and gravy poured from a ladle
I am water rushing from the mountaintop,
spilling from the kitchen faucet,
I am the patient grandmother
of the hearthside-flickering fire
I am the baker, the rolling pin,
and the sparkling pie plate
the cherries bursting with sweetness
I am the heart overflowing with joy—
my white hair, my walk around the park
on this early November morning
where a late rose blooms bright as the rising sun
and a flock, a court, a dynasty of kinglets,
flits from twiggy branch to branch
each leaf-small bird
chittering in the language of love.

Dale Champlin, an Oregon poet with an MFA in fine art, has poems in The Opiate, Timberline, Pif, and Triggerfish Critical Review among other journals. Dale has three poetry collections; The Barbie Diaries, Callie Comes of Age, 2021, and Isadora, 2022. Three additional collections, Leda, Medusa, and Andromina, A Stranger in America are forthcoming. For more information: dalechamplin.com

What One Vet Left Behind

Nine Bibles
A dozen towels, washed, folded
and stacked on shelves in the bathroom
A clean tub, refrigerator, and stove
His grandfather’s tie clips,
cuff links and WW2 metals
A large jar of peppermint lifesavers

Half-dozen watch caps, one with a light in front
suitable for scanning a large parking lot
Half-dozen baseball hats in various sizes and colors,
one emblazoned with the word “Security”
in gold on the crown and brim
Three electric shaving kits suitable for beards
and heads with assorted guides for length
Several issues of Heavy Metal magazine
Four large boxes of paperback fantasy and sci-fi novels
Three cases of DVDs, mostly superhero adventures,
thrillers, and heist movies
Stacks of D&D game scenario notes
mixed with bank statements and personal records

T-shirts, some 40 years old, from Berlin,
Hawaii, Wisconsin, the Army, birthday gifts
A dozen pairs of black pants, waist-sizes
from 32 to 44, pants length always 36
Fifty pairs of socks, mostly black, some with ankle supports
Three pairs of work boots with thick treads

Photos of the family in random order
Prints of his children’s in vitro ultrasounds
in a baggy with locks of their hair
A small tin holding their baby teeth

Kris Demien lives with multiple species in Portland, Oregon. Her work appears in VoiceCatcher, The Poeming Pigeon/Sports issue and Willawaw Journal.

Pareidolia

the number three appeared
in a cloud as clear and tangible
as the Esso sign
at the corner
of Betances and Gautier

in the car on the way to school
riding with one of my fathers
the sign of the petrol station
always helped me distinguish
the number three from the letter E

now i know what the cloud
tried to tell me,
that the 3 and the letter E
are the things i no longer have

their voices filled my narrow world,
the cultivated chatter of medicine
and litigation,
in a cumulous baritone
that shouted verses of Darío
but not Neruda
—ese comunista

the oldest set me straight
for nuns and school,
the youngest to the movies
— mira, que cómico es Cantinflas
to show me the México he missed
and I didn’t remember

and there was one,
the one I loved best,
whose too wide shoulders folded
to showed me how to use a blade of grass
to catch anoles and reveries

but like that cloud over Boardman,
dispersing softly into nothingness
one by one they went—

‌            First, was Paco, whose cheek, like adiabatic cooling,
‌    ‌        left a hardened tenderness on my lips

‌            as his body was carted away by a nurse
‌            —this isn’t good for you, she said
‌            as she ushered me out of the room
‌            out of my begging for him to stay

‌            Then, was Moisés. Whose last breath
‌            carried his bride’s name
‌            in his untimely death, he took
‌            the memory of my birth
‌            and the songs
‌            —México lindo y querido
‌            si muera lejos de ti…

‌            and Euclides, whose every atom
‌            was my atmosphere,
‌            my cloudless sky,
‌            he is the one,
‌            from whom I still
‌            had so much to learn
‌            the one who should have stayed

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a Latinx BIPOC poet and writer. Amelia’s poetry and short stories have been published in anthologies, literary magazines, and periodicals. She has an MS in Biology and MFA in creative writing. Her literary work is a marriage of science and her experience as an immigrant. Presently, she resides in Eastern Oregon.

Our Wild Life

Our existence lately has been pretty tame,
not much excitement to be found.
Sometimes we see a rabbit on our lawn
munching grass, what we call “having a nosh.”
This gladdens us in our gentle quietude
and we declare it to be a “bunniful” day.
Every bunny needs some bunny,
we like to say.
‌                            On other days, a fox
cuts through the back yard on its way
to a gap in the neighbor’s fence
and then on to the next street over.
We name it Mr. Fox, or alternatively,
we announce the Vixen is about,
hunting for prey—like our rabbit,
or the many chipmunks that abound
in our neighborhood.  They all seem to
hunker down in their dens when the fox
shows up.
‌                    My wife, a Shakespeare lover,
names each chipmunk Puck.  “Here, Puck,”
she calls, when tossing nuts out the door.
We envision vast quantities of cashews
and Brazil nuts under our lawn, the various
Pucks hoarding them, counting them, and
sleeping on them through the winter.

We set up a bird feeder outside the back
window, complete with baffler to defeat
the squirrels, who still managed to find
enough spillage to keep them happy.
Then one morning we noticed a fierce
hawk perched on the top of the feeder,
looking right at us.  Later, we discovered
a clump of feathers on the ground below,
and realized we had lured one birdie
to its death.  So we gave up putting out
any more seed.  Of course, the neighbors
all around us had their feeders too,
so it really made no difference,
but we still didn’t want to be complicit.

John S. Eustis is a retired librarian living in Virginia with his wife, after a long, quiet federal career. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Tar River Poetry, and other places.

The Stuff of Dreams

If my mother thought having a Barbie
would warp my view of womanhood,
she didn’t let on. Instead she griped
about how much they cost. Forget about
the shiny outfits, the high heeled shoes!
I got the cheap Barbie, the one with hard plastic
arms and legs, no bending whatsoever.
Torpedo boobs, perpetually pointy feet,
bright blonde hair pulled in a ponytail.

My friend down the street had a Ken.
Better yet, she stole her brother’s GI Joes.
GI Joes were so much better
equipped. And so many versions!
Back then, there was only one Ken,
and let’s face it, he was a total snooze.
My Barbie could only scissor sex,
a whirligig of splayed legs.

The friend moved away.
I cut Barbie’s hair, exposing the back
of her balding head. I filched
one of my dad’s white cotton handkerchiefs
from the ironing basket, strung it
with dental floss, tied it to Barbie’s
fraying pink dress, and tossed her out
my second story bedroom window.
Parachuting Barbie!
She wasn’t very good at it, so she stayed
in the grass where she landed
until my father mowed the side yard.

That was that, the end of Barbie.
Did Barbie alter my view of the feminine?
Perhaps.
Ten years later, when I was nineteen,
I jumped,
my chute green as a lawn
against a cobalt blue sky.

Ann Farley, poet and caregiver, is happiest outdoors, preferably at the beach. Her poems have appeared in Timberline Review, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, Verseweavers, KOSMOS, and others. Her first chapbook, Tell Her Yes, was published by The Poetry Box in April, 2022. She lives in Beaverton, OR. Visit her website here.