Adagio for Heart Strings
Lindsey Royce
I woke after a delicious weed-
induced sleep wholly
relaxed, as if my body had forgotten
you are dead. This high
is beginning to wear off, & my head
is becoming a jewel box
whose ballerina dances pointe
on bloody toes.
Lindsey Royce earned a Ph.D. in Creative Writing/Poetry and Literature from the University of Houston. Her poems have appeared in numerous American periodicals and anthologies, including the Aeolian Harp anthology; Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts (periodicals and anthologies); Poet Lore; and Washington Square Review, to name a few. Her first poetry collection, Bare Hands,was published by Turning Point in September of 2016, and her second collection, Play Me a Revolution, was published by Press 53 in September, 2019. Royce teaches writing and literature in Northwest Colorado.
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Ghost Dog
John Cuetara
We see our beautiful blond ghost dog everywhere running in wet sand on the beach at night and crossing a dark road his green eyes gleaming in the headlights wondering why we left him to fade out in the arms of a stranger while we suffer silently in Savannah.
John Cuetara is the author of two short story collections and one book of poetry. He attended Bennington College where he studied with Bernard Malamud. John lives on the Mystic Lakes in Medford MA and works as a psychologist.
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One Way
Steve Klepetar
My aunt wouldn’t walk against traffic on one-way streets.
I mean, she thought those thick white arrows
were meant for her, and she obeyed carefully, as though
someone was always watching. She didn’t look scared.
She was a big woman, strong arms and shoulders
from factory work, thick black hair bursting
from a blue or red kerchief, and if she got mad, watch out.
“Aunt Traute,” I’d say, “those signs are for cars.
You can walk on the sidewalk any way you like.”
“Cheeky,” she said. “That’s just what they’d like you to think.”
Her black eyes burned. She rubbed her forearm across her mouth
and we plodded on. Later she sat in her armchair drinking gin
from a flask she kept in her purse, along with communist tracts,
LifeSavers and gum.
My parents sat across from her on the couch, maybe listening to opera.
“Bourgeois,” said my aunt.
“But lovely,” my mom replied. “The human voice.”
My father smoked a cigar. He always read big books,
the kind I could barely lift, as smoke wafted above his head
in a fragrant cloud. I hid under my little desk, did my homework
as the evening ticked away. Squirrels chased each other
across our roof, claws clacking as they ran.
“Ah, Wozeck,” my father said, his favorite, the one he fed with nuts and crumbs.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion which is available from Big Table Publishing Company.
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For Emmylou
Phoebe Brueckner
Do you remember that rumor about Mrs. Lass, about how she herself caused the fire? I always wondered how she could have done it. Did she drink herself into oblivion before holding a match to the curtain and going upstairs to lie down? When the smoke detector went off, was it like a lullaby in the background? I always hoped that the smoke got her first, that it wasn’t the flames themselves.
But now I get how she could have done it, if in fact the rumor was true. It’s gotten to that point for me, with that something inside me I cannot get out. I once saw, in a movie, a man jump off a bridge. But it’s more like he fell—with his arms out and face to the sky—and I thought it was nice, in a way, to just let go and let gravity do all the work.
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone—but my energy still will exist, so don’t worry. This is what I started this letter to tell you: I’m going to befriend gravity, and we’ll be neighbors in the air all around you. It will help you hear my footsteps as I walk down the hall to your room at night to curl up in bed beside you, just like I did as a kid. So if you hear those boards creaking in the hallway at night, don’t be scared. Just reach out your hand and hold mine.
Phoebe Brueckner lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she enjoys taking long walks in the sunshine. She has published fiction and photography in Jet Fuel Review and recently received an honorable mention in NYC Midnight’s 2019 Microfiction Challenge. She is currently working on her first novel.
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Bijou’s Epitaph
Beth Tornes
Wrapped in my blonde fur coat,
I was the envy of many a Hollywood star.
Marlene Dietrich was likely
a distant German cousin,
with her haughty stare
and soft, elegant hair.
Did you notice my perspicacity,
how I would warn the world
whenever danger loomed?
And when I caught a rabbit in my jaws,
how mercifully I dispatched it,
snapping its life in two? Lady-like,
sharp-witted like Marlene, I always
listened carefully when spoken to
but followed my own instincts: my life
was a happier one for it. Now I lie
in a duvet of velvet moss and wintergreen,
not listening, or seeing—but still I am adored.
Elizabeth Tornes has published three award-winning poetry collections, Between the Dog and the Wolf (Five Oaks Press, 2016) New Moon (Finishing Line Press, 2013) and Snowbound (Giiwedin Press, 2011). Her poems have been published in Ariel Anthology, Blue Heron Review, bornmagazine, Boulevard, Bramble, Field, Illuminations, Main Street Rag, The North American Review, Page & Spine, Ploughshares, and Yellow Medicine Review. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and have appeared in Poetry Daily. She has also published a collection of Ojibwe oral histories, Memories of Lac du Flambeau Elders (University of Wisconsin Press, 2004). She earned a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from the University of Utah. She lives in Lac du Flambeau. Wisconsin.
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Endodontist
Laura Rodley
Deep in the recesses of my molar
the endodontist digs his scraper;
there's not enough anesthetic-
allergic to novocaine, he has to give
me something shorter lasting.
“Bear with me,” he says,
until the nurse says,
“She feels it,” my continued
groaning placing her on high alert,
and then another shot in the palette,
the roof of my mouth,
the cathedral of taste.
And then my friend Maryann comes
into the bright light shining from above.
She appears first in her wheelchair
so I would know her, her arms and legs thin
as a praying mantis, then walking.
“I can walk now,” she says,
her limbs thickened by muscle,
no longer a quadriplegic.
Her mother too appears,
strokes my hair as he drills
and digs. “Almost done,”
he repeats, thinking the tears
I shed were solely for pain, not
the uplift of seeing Maryann
and her mother, who stayed
with me until the drill shuts off,
and his green mask ruffles, as he says,
“We’re done here.”
Laura Rodley, Pushcart Prize winner is a quintuple Pushcart Prize nominee, and quintuple Best of Net nominee. Publisher Finishing Line Press nominated her Your Left Front Wheel Is Coming Loose for a PEN L.L.Winship Award and Mass Book Award. FLP also nominated her Rappelling Blue Light for a Mass Book Award. Former co-curator of the Collected Poets Series, Rodley teaches the As You Write It memoir class and has edited and published As You Write It, A Franklin County Anthology volumes I-VI, also nominated for a Mass Book Award. She was accepted at Martha’s Vineyard’s NOEPC and has been a participant in the 30 poems in November fundraiser for the Literacy Project for Center for New Americans. Latest books Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Publishing and Counter Point by Prolific Press.
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Crack Open an Egg
Ruth Housman
crack open an egg
the moon and sun
in your saucepan
your hands became
sun’s rays in yoga class
you stood trying to steady
yourself
a trembling butterfly
Ruth Housman is fascinated by the stories we tell. Her poetry and writings are found all over the Web and in anthologies. She has written several plays, and books of poetry. Her children’s book, a fantasy about dreams, The Birthday Present, will be published in time for her granddaughter’s eighth birthday.
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32 DOGS Rob Dinsmoor ~ to my friend J.T., who grew up in the town where I was born One driver showed up and opened his door But this one was followed by a half dozen more The car in the front, one guy got out And then my old man went out there to shout We did nothing to them but race is a factor To small-town small-minded hillbilly crackers One of the crackers, as big as a moose, Got out of his pick-up, dangling a noose My sister just sobbed but I ran to the closet I pulled out our twelve-gauge, proceeded to cock it That one summer day, it sure was a hot one I covered my dad from the porch with a shotgun The half-dozen cars, they showed up like minnows But our thirty-two dogs barked at their windows Thirty-two dogs Count ’em thirty-two dogs Thirty-two dogs all wanting to play Including my favorite, my own Cassius Clay One guy got out, a guy with long bangs George Washington Carver showed him his fangs One of this mob, a toothless old fellow Got a serious growl from my black lab Othello Thirty-two dogs Count ’em thirty-two dogs Surrounded by dogs, my dad’s not alone He said to them all, “Y’all go home.” With thirty-two dogs keeping them all at bay The half-dozen cars, they all drove away They showed up in their cars one hot summer day But our thirty-two dogs scared them away
Rob Dinsmoor is a freelance writer who has published dozens of short stories, as well as scripts for Nickelodeon and MTV. His collection of short stories, Toxic Cookout, was published by Big Table Publishing Company in October, 2019.
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Flora & Fauna of Washington Square
Francine Mazzeo D’Alessandro
I was talking in my sleep when Arlene called
too early and I dreamed we planned to meet
at Washington Square. We did plan—I forgot.
We do meet—I am late. I’m wearing (mostly)
yesterday’s clothes, sleep-muddled still
as the great pageant sweeps me along –
if one can be swept along in clogs. Never mind.
The day is bright and fine, nearly spring,
nearly spring! Hurrah for blooms of batik and lace,
fur and fringe! Hurrah for greatcoats and combat
boots and breeze-lofted tangles of hair!
Hurrah, you hackysackers and hoolahoopers
and dancers in the street. We warble, we coo, we caw—
finely feathered children of America.
And here comes the Gray Line!
Wave to the tourists, Arlene!
We are their memory of New York!
Francine Mazzeo D'Alessandro was born in Brooklyn, New York, to which she has returned after living in Worcester, Massachusetts, for many years. A past-president of the Worcester County Poetry Association, her work has appeared in The Worcester Review, Poets in the Galleries, Celebration of Worcester Poets, The Longfellow Journal and other publications, including the late, great journals Sahara and Diner.
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Deus Ex Machina
Bruce W. Niedt
I want the gods descending on a crane to bear me up like in Greek tragedies, just when it seemed that all was lost and certain death, or worse, dishonor, reared their ugly masks. I want majestic eagles to swoop down and lift me up securely in their talons, just like those in Middle Earth who rescued Sam and Frodo from the red slopes of Mt. Doom. I want a billionaire someday to knock upon my door and say, “My friend, there’s way too much for me to spend myself, So take this cash to fix your roof and send your kids to school.” I want to hit the lottery, an unknown aunt to die and leave me in her will. I want my dream job falling in my lap, a fast machine to take me out of here and land me in a tropic paradise, a margarita in my hand. I want a happy ending to my story no one would expect, that I didn’t even have to earn.
Bruce W. Niedt is a retired “beneficent bureaucrat” from southern NJ whose poetry has appeared in Rattle, Writer's Digest, Mason Street Review, Spitball, US 1 Worksheets, and many other print and online journals. He has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. His latest chapbook is Hits and Sacrifices (Finishing Line Press), and he is currently fine-tuning his first full-length manuscript.
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But I Did See Her in August
David P. Miller
She was my warmup girlfriend,
the one who hurled me into romance
by launching her face at mine so fast
her tongue popped its portal, landed
right between my speechless teeth.
I already knew what her answer would be
to the heartpang oldie, Will I see you
in September? She had her future ex-fiancé
snug in her back pocket, and he wasn’t me.
I was her side gig, straddling cloud ninety
with a landmark osculation. Later, the “parking”
I’d heard so much about, the blissful etceteras.
The last time I saw my starter girl
we were engulfed by Mary Poppins
on revival tour in a picture palace.
A downtown dream depot
with few enough fellow nostalgists
taking seats at the start. Before the end
all the others folded their tents
and vanished. Projectionist, rest room
scrubbers, concessionaire, all
could have called it an early night
if not for us: two short-timers in flight
across the screen with Londoners’ kites.
David P. Miller’s collection, Sprawled Asleep, was published by Nixes Mate Books in 2019. Poems have recently appeared in Meat for Tea, Hawaii Pacific Review, Turtle Island Quarterly, Clementine Unbound, Constellations, J Journal, The Lily Poetry Review, Unlost, Ibbetson Street, and What Rough Beast, among others. His poem “Add One Father to Earth” was awarded an Honorable Mention by Robert Pinsky for the New England Poetry Club's 2019 Samuel Washington Allen Prize competition.
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Love Poem
Richard Fox
I rub Mom’s shoulder gently,
as if massaging a cranky newborn.
Her live eye focuses on me. Its vacant twin—
angular scar, collapsed iris— tracks loyally.
Her hand snakes out from under the quilt,
links with mine. Pulls my hand to her lips.
The smooch—a cork pop from an aged bottle
of champagne—once in high demand, now vinegar.
She rests a cheek on her collarbone, my arm.
A dish of blueberries, a bowl of lime jello, appear.
Mom drops my hand, eats berries one by one, smiling,
pauses, encloses my hand, kisses it four times.
Spoon ignored, she scoops jello. Swallows without chewing.
Snack complete, her head rolls onto the pillow. She dozes.
When I stop the shoulder rub, she wakes, turns to me.
I resume caressing. A breath, her voice, garbled.
My hand, grasped, rises to her mouth. Mom bites me.
I was warned.
Richard Fox is the author of four poetry collections plus a chapbook. When not writing about rock ’n roll and youthful transgressions, he focuses on cancer from the patient's point of view drawing on hope, humor, and unforeseen gifts. Winner of the 2017 Frank O’Hara Prize.
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A Boy Who Jumped Out of a Night Sky
Bobby Breen
So much depends
on fast wheels
of a red fire truck
arriving your lifeless form
lying in the street
face expressive
as Donatella’s David
you should have grown
to an elderly future
with children
and grandchildren
of your own
expiring some
idol summers eve
in your solitary garden
not this dreadful loss
of the secret chord
you might have played
for your beloved
your bright white-shining sneakers
and tailored denim jeans
suggest abundant care
given to one so young
Your towhead hair
falls across an angelic
now sunken adolescent face
encircled by a bright red halo
this little island
gone so silent
I do not hear
the steady traffic
flowing all around me
as we await the coroner
knowing his status update
will not shield
your parent’s pain
my breath catches imagining
with cradled helmet
under one arm
open to a taciturn heaven
wondering what Goliath
rules this day I rue
Robert Breen was born in Boston, Massachusetts, graduated from the University of Massachusetts Boston, and, after his decades-long career as a Boston firefighter, he retired, taking his love of writing to the next level by entering graduate school and attended the summer writing program at Harvard University. The Faculty of Arts and Sciences judges unanimously decided to publish his poem “The Eighth Circle” in The Harvard Summer Review in 2000. This poem was also published in Hello Poetry. Honorable Mention was received from the Key West Poets & Writers 1997 for “The Reef.” He is a 2015 winner of the Joy of the Pen competition from the Topsham Public Library, Topsham, Maine, and was awarded the Margaret F. Tripp Poetry Award for the poem “Beyond Cold.” Several of his poems were published in the Café Review editions of spring 2018 and fall 2019. His published books are The Shore Digger and Undertow: A Tide Pool of Poems. The Breen/Heaney Collection, including unpublished works, letters & correspondences, resides at Emory University, Rose Library. He lives in Brunswick, Maine, with his wife, Karen.
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A Dog’s Life
Michael C. Keith
Every time the Jamesons fought, their rescue dog would slink away and hide for fear she was the cause of the discord. This ultimately resulted in her running away and being seized by the town's animal warden. She had no identification and was earmarked for extinction. Just as she was about to be euthanized, she was taken to a northern city, where she was adopted by a loving couple…who soon fell out of love.
Michael C. Keith is the author of 20 books of fiction.
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Blah Blah Spot, Blah Blah Blah! Phil Temples
Spot whined, barked, even begged his master to take him outside to do his business. He even went to the closet, retrieved his leash and laid it at his master’s feet to no avail. The master ignored him and instead, continued to watch the reality TV show. Spot could no longer contain his frustration (or bladder). He barked a final warning then he raised his hind leg and let fly a stream of warm urine on the man’s foot. Spot’s act of desperation elicited a pause on the television remote, followed by a stream of a different type—profanity, the likes of which Spot had never heard.
Phil Temples resides in Watertown, Massachusetts. He's had over 140 short stories and a novella published in various print and online publications, along with three mystery-thriller novels, and a short story anthology titled Helltown Chronicles. Phil is a member of the GrubStreet writing center in Boston and the Mystery Writers of America.
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Burnt
Don Monaghan
He turned away
from her familiar face,
from the forehead
kissed so often
and tenderly – the way
spent lovers kiss in darkness,
from the eyes that watched
him fumble haplessly
for words that would summon
a smile that said “Yes”
to coffee later that day
in the small shop where
he first noticed her
sitting alone at a window table
reading Dobyns,
from those high cheekbones
held rosy in both his hands
as he kissed her outside
in crisp air and the confetti mess
signaling a new year,
and from that damn mouth
that burned his ears
and every important inch of his body
at one time or another
with a searing heat he could
never seem to equal.
He always meant it,
but remembers just now
saying “I love you,”
selfishly sometimes
just so he could hear
her say it back.
Don Monaghan studied writing at Jefferson Community College and the State University of New York at Oswego. He currently resides in Upstate New York where he works as a Sales Manager for a family owned mechanical company. When the Poetry Muse or guitar isn't calling, he's most likely on a motorcycle traveling along little-known back roads hoping to get lost. This is his first publication.
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She Went the Distance
Elisabeth Harrahy
One hot summer day
when there was no air conditioning
to be found
I retreated to the shade
of the sugar maple
where the big ant hills
I liked to conquer
rose from the dirt
My mother came to the back door
sweat running down the lines
in her forehead
stained blouse sticking
to her chest
and she called me to come take
a crinkled bill
to the corner store
I was eight years old
and from the top of my street
the top of this hill
in the city of Worcester
I could see a billboard above
the old Norton factory below
that featured the same brand
she smoked
blaring “Us Tareyton smokers would rather fight
than switch!”
beneath a picture of a woman
with a thick black smudge
under one eye
As I ran down the street
to buy a pack
I thought about my mom
waiting at the door
waiting for her cigarettes
waiting for my father to come back
from who knows
which other woman’s arms
waiting and readying for the next bout
And I wish now
as she stood there strategizing
in her imaginary boxing gloves
behind a furrowed brow
that she could have pulled back
climbed what must have seemed like
a mountain in those days
to get a glimpse of a new life in the distance
to which one day
she would bravely switch
Elisabeth Harrahy is an Associate Professor in the Department of Biological Sciences at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater, where she teaches courses in ecology and conducts research on the effects of contaminants on aquatic ecosystems. In her spare time, she likes to drive her 1967 Plymouth Satellite muscle car and write poems and short stories. Her poems have appeared in Journal of Gender and Cultural Critiques, Slightly West, Wisconsin People and Ideas, Bramble, Sky Island Journal, Gyroscope Review, and Blue Heron Review.
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The Cost of Living
Andrea Coursey
I asked the woman ahead of me in line, “If that’s Lightning Joe, would it be OK to say hi?”
"He’ll love it,” she said. “Do you mind if I make a quick trip to the ladies room while you chat? He has a hard time, but if you’re patient, it’s worth it. He’s having a good one today. Just don’t let him leave without me.” She turned him with a light touch on his upper arm and said loudly into his scarred ear, “Joey, here’s one of your fans!” then stepped away.
Face to face with him, I was tongue tied, twice over: both awed at meeting a fighter I admired, and sad to see what his career had cost.
He hid his shaking hands in the pockets of his jeans, hesitated at the effort, then asked slowly past broken teeth if he should know me.
“No,” I said, overloud and nervous, “I was just one of the screaming voices in the crowd that night at Suffok Downs.”
“You remember that? My knockout in the second round!” He settled into a pose, mimicked taking a swing. “That sound…”
“…Like a homer off the bat at Fenway,” we said together, grinning. I added, “Yeah, and at the Roxy when you moved up to light weight.”
“The night G. R. broke his hand?! That was a good night for me, not so much for him.” Pixie grin, and a tap against his still trim belly. “I wouldn’t make weight now.”
“I saw you down at Foxwoods, too, ‘Boxing After Dark.’ We had a room on the same floor as you guys. I walked down the hall beside you and the kid from New Jersey, but it was just before the fight, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“How in heck did you know it was me, today?”
“Would you believe, it was the way you bring up your arm. You shooed away a fly when I was standing in line behind you. I just knew.”
His smile dipped, and his gaze traveled past the forked tail mermaid above the Starbucks counter. “Those were some good days. Hard, but good.” Trembling hands retreated again toward the safety of his pockets. Then, with a jagged smile he lifted his battered knuckles. We tapped, and he surprised me with a quick hug. “And you remember! You’re alright kid. You’re alright.”
Andrea Coursey is a fledgling writer who has always enjoyed collecting stories, often through her job in public safety. Now retired from the fire service she has renewed an interest in poetry and discovered the challenge of flash fiction. Previously she has enjoyed spit-balling scenes with a friend and author, sometimes in public places and with hilarious results. In return her friend wrote her into a historical romance as a minor character. A poetry writing challenge hosted by Robin Stratton a few years ago prompted her to try crafting her own work. She is inspired by the everyday interactions between strangers, friends, and family.
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American Tune
Howie Good
Love everything that lives and be fair to all the parts and do not have a hierarchy, but should the uniforms come for you under the cover of night to convey you back across the border, resolve to become like the wind that dies one moment only to return the next as poems and explosions.
&
I was driving because she couldn’t drive a stick, my window half-open, the air rushing past, whup-whup-whup, when suddenly there was a sulfur smell like witches burning. She looked up from her phone screen and saw the dreary sky and then the ramshackle ruins of an abandoned factory behind prison fencing. “Are we lost?” she asked. Well, yeah, maybe.
&
We were a block or so from our hotel, holding hands like a couple of teenagers, when we saw the dark, lumpy shape, a homeless person wrapped in a shroud of blankets and sleeping on cardboard, but said nothing about it, quick looked away and walked past at a picked-up pace, as if a crime had just been committed and our entire role in it was to forget.
Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
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Grace
Gale Acuff
In Sunday School I learn I go to Hell
if I lead a wicked life. And I must
believe that Jesus is the Son of God
and died for my sins. And I should do good,
which, in English hour at school, is different
from doing well. Or is it different than?
After church I walk the long mile home. I
limp into the house, take off my clip-on
bow tie and put it in my coat pocket
and sit down to lunch. Father and Mother
have been waiting for me. They're not too hot
about church but they love God - I guess they
do. I've never asked them. Father passes
me the bread. Thank you, I say. Do you love
God, I ask. He looks at Mother. What a
question, she says. Do you love God, I ask
her. Father's turn: What a question, he apes.
I'm sorry, I say - I'm just curious.
That's alright, Mother says. Then together
they ask me Do you love God, as if they'd
rehearsed and all of this has been a play.
They look at each other like they're in love
again, and laugh. So I do, too, but not
right with them, not exactly. But I'm still
quick: What a question, I say. Then we chow.
Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.
