Journal

Summer Communion

–for my father, 1932-2013

My father loved tomatoes that he called
old-timey. He meant not sweet but tart fruits
that reminded him of childhood. In old
envelopes, he saved heirloom seeds. Planted,
they refused to germinate—or rooted,
leaves withered in blight, or birds pecked
the flesh, or fruit fell to rot at blossom end.
When his own diseased cells blasted blood
and marrow, his breath shallowed. He could not
swallow. His lungs were a flood. We had thought
the end would be his heart. That last August,
his breath was so short, he could not eat.
He never came home. There’s an acid bite
of summer sorrow in all that is ripe.

August

I was born in a month of heat & drought
when the light through the trees flickers
like phosphorescence in the ocean, here
then gone as shorter days subside in tides
of mosquitoes whirring, no venerable
emperors but bats dipping into the sky
and everything sponsoring the question
did I just see that? I pay attention to wings
in keeping with the word akin to augur,
wonder what’s consecrated now, what
I might divine, what sign is favorable
for gathering, harvest, boon, foretelling
with promise like the Old Latin suggests,
augos to increase or avis for bird, auspicious
flights & trails & entrails, whatever can be
studied in this the eight month, Gregorian-
wise, while the goldenrod waves its yellow
feathery goodbyes on the roadsides, fruits
in the garden are ripe to bursting, falling
apart on the vines, tomatoes splitting down
their sides while from their bird-pecked
skins whole kingdoms of ants spill out
in paths I examine, guessing only that
what they mean is panic. They do not seem
august or ordained, but surely their frantic
exodus implies something about divination,
elusive signs, omens, what can and cannot
be prognosticated by seeds or ceremonies.

 

Elinor Ann Walker’s recent work is featured or forthcoming in Northwest Review,
Pidgeonholes, Whale Road Review, Gone Lawn, and The Southern Review. A Best
Microfiction and Best of the Net nominee, she lives with her husband and two dogs,
is the mother of two young adult sons, and prefers to write outside. Find her online
at elinorannwalker.com and on Twitter @elinorann_poet.

Say Goodbye, Catullus,
to the Shores of Asia Minor *

Peregrinator, passing through small towns,
passing through solitude, what will you remember
about today? Even if you write a few notes

in your book, or record a memo—even if
you assign a room for this quiet place
in that house where you keep memory in order,

your green is not the green of new leaves.
Your recollection of the scent of pine
is imperfect, you discover whenever you break

the boughs of an evergreen. Though somehow when
you recognize that odor, you say—it could be nothing
else. And looking across the river, you see

strange smoke billowing, ragged, dense in spots,
in others a thin discoloration—and call it
without hesitation—green. But you envy the ability

of water to take the shoreline and sky into itself
completely, or only embellished with a few ripples
where midges test the difference between the sky

above and sky below. To go five years without seeing
a face, to go ten—are you sure you can
recognize him? You hope that as with these

details, with odors only occurring in one place,
with colors observed just once a year,
you will know—you will answer

that is my brother—that is his face—
without thinking, without second-guessing
the glimpse beneath the shroud.

And you will remember—already,
you’re preparing yourself—that face
as it was one afternoon

when he pushed you into the current
from the light skiff in which he floated,
beautiful with anger, his arms glistening—

his face like a lily in the middle of a pond,
everything made deeper-seeming by him,
by the weight of his presence. You will remember

his expression once he realized what he had done.

* The unofficial title of a painting by Cy Twombly
housed at the Menil Collection, Houston, TX.

William Welch lives in Utica, NY where he works as a registered nurse. His work has appeared in various journals, most recently in Nine Mile, Rust+Moth, Hole in the Head Review, and Stone Canoe. New work is forthcoming in The Healing Muse and The Comstock Review. He edits Doubly Mad for The Other Side of Utica (doublymad.org).

Thick, Slick, Blackfly Physic

Like Robin Hood who for disguise dyed face and hair
with walnut juice before shooting in the contest at Nottingham’s fair,
my father in June, because June means flies, applied dark liquid to his skin
while sitting on a lean-to’s front log stoop, getting ready for a day in the
woods to begin. Small measures of camphor, pennyroyal
and citronella simmered in a saucepan of pine tar and mineral oil—
he’d made this potion at home on my mother’s kitchen
stove, and now passed it around in a bottle. We divided up the day’s goods,
filled backpacks and canteens, then rubbed the stuff into our necks,
arms, backs of hands and wrists. Come afternoon, my father would perplex
us with his cheer. Carefree as Robin when cornered by the sheriff’s men,
he waved a spruce sprig overhead to chase away the flies,
and, when we whined, listened with what seemed mild surprise,
happy himself—no matter what, I guess—to walk all day in the woods again.

 

Charles Weld’s poems have appeared in literary magazines such as Southern Poetry Review, The Evansville Review, Worcester Review, CT Review, etc. Pudding House published a chapbook of his poems, Country I Would Settle In, in 2004. Kattywompus Press published another chapbook, Who Cooks For You? in 2012. A mental health counselor, he’s worked primarily in a non-profit agency treating youth who face mental health challenges, and lives in the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York.

Barn Swallows

I pause at the end of the corn row, back and arms weary
from hacking at the morning glory and milk thistle
threatening the Silver Queen, the okra, the speckled limas.

My day’s work done and the barn swallows are feeding,
their adagio dance a thing of grace, blue black wings clipping back
and down, sweeping the green pasture grass, then a rising tour en l’air.

The hoe and shovel put away, the birds arc nearby,
familiar now with this evening ritual of mine
and theirs, the rote chores of our subsistence a comfortable necessity.

When I was a child, the swallows swooped toward me, frightened me.
“Ah,” my mother cooed, “it’s part of their dance. Watch. Listen.”
In the stillness, I heard the soft cusping of their feathers

as they banked close around me, as if to say,
“We’re right here, reach out your hand. Come. Join us,”
only to have them sweep away, disappearing in the shadows.

The western sky purples toward nightfall and the swallows still feed.
I lean in the solitude of the barn’s breezeway, certain I’ll hear
the whisper of my mother’s voice on their wings.

Kevin Winchester writes, teaches, and wanders around looking at things that he later writes
about. He has an MFA from Queens University, has published a novel, Sunflower Dog, a short
story collection, Everybody's Gotta Eat. Other works have appeared in Barren Magazine,
Dead Mule Society of Southern Lit, Tin House, Barrelhouse, among others. He lives in Waxhaw, NC.

Artist Statement:

Alchemy Doesn’t Begin with Gold: Toward a Subjective Regionalism

I consider my creative work a practice, which has changed a lot over the years, but certain threads are deeply woven into my routines and rituals. Light and form, shape and texture, an aesthetic dependent on an eye seeking pleasure, all a part of how I perceive the world. In school, I suffered from left-handed backwardness syndrome. I did not excel in penmanship or drawing because my left hand smudged and rubbed out my cursive lessons along with my fledgling birds and pencil trees. Add an undisciplined drunken obsession with wild color and I made a mess out of everything.

Consistent threads in my visual roots revolve around photography and ink drawings. While the camera demands some basic technical knowledge, the technology has extended the range of the possible for those who practice with digital cameras, programs like Photoshop, high-quality copiers, and giclee printers. Photography and ink drawings can bring one vision into the other. With the camera, I alter what it sees to fit my eye through a process of subjective regionalism, using regional forms, colors, and nuances to fabricate a world of Crooked Comix. With ink, I am able to limit my palette and keep the colors clean and separated. With practice, I have discovered Crooked Comix in my landscapes and critters in the hills. And in that narrative: anything goes. Welcome to my world!

David Memmott has been living and writing in the Pacific Northwest most of his life and his work explores views of the American West both rural and subjective. His collection Lost Transmissions includes the long poem, “Where the Yellow Brick Road Turns West,” a finalist for the Spur Award. His poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in Cirque, The Poeming Pigeon, Weber: The Contemporary West, Triggerfish: A Critical Review, basalt, Sheila-Na-Gig and Gargoyle. Memmott founded Phantom Drift: A Journal of New Fabulism and is editor/publisher of Wordcraft of Oregon. His digital art can be viewed in the Moonlight Garden at davidmemmott.com.