Issue #7, 2004
Table of Contents
Steve Cleveland, Crust (excerpt)
Judith Skillman, Bruxism
Kathleen Hunt, Tremor (excerpt)
Anita K. Boyle, The Emotion Eaters
Jean Esteve, Good Fortune
Taemi Linn, Manufactured Homes
Gregory Hischak, Hidden Driveway Lake
Phyllis Mannan, Otter Rock Mollusks
Tricia Yost, Northern Lights, Fairbanks, Alaska
Jim Shugrue, Each Page
David Axelrod, Status Quo
Tricia Yost, The Art of Flying
Dorinda Clifton, woman and smoke image
Sue Pace, Ralph’s World
Marjorie Stelmach, Argument Against Telepathy
Joannie Kervran Stangeland, Six Dollars for Freesia
Mike Wood, Night Of The Proud Nudist
Marjorie Manwaring, Mandible
Marjorie Stelmach, Argument Against the Inner World
Jennifer Gann, no sex and burritos on sunday
Marjorie Stelmach, Argument Against an Ars Poetica
alex esteve, kitchen image
Julie Lechevsky, Heart and Heel
Robin Parks, Belgian Country Inn
Linda Bosson, Tresses
Dorinda Clifton, box image
Kathleen Hunt, 1980
Tricia Yost, Taking Down the Plane
Dorinda Clifton, falling woman image
Cora Goss-Grubbs, Five Hours After a Skydive
Mary Lou Sanelli, Unspoken
Caroline Du Pree Le Guin, The Problem with a Happy Childhood
Gregory Hischak, Road from Hamlin
Jan Priddy, Baptism
Jim Shugrue, Floating
Alex Esteve, desert image
Sheila Nickerson, Considering the Purchase of 40 Acres Northwest of Lynden
David Axelrod, After
Gary Davis, No Code
Larry Crist, Tomatoes
Kathleen Hunt, Out of Nashville
Janet Yoder, The Disorder
Diane Westergaard, Easter
Anita K. Boyle, The Eggs These Days
Julie Lechevsky, First Dusting
Kathleen Hunt, Clearing
eating crusty bread.
Sitting under the stars
with his disciples.
This bread is succulent,
Succulent means juicy,
Oh, says Peter. Well,
it’s damn good,
however you wanna say it.
It’s because you’re hungry,
Christ says. Is this a
chimes in. Maybe, Christ
says. I think
there’s a parable
in there somewhere.
The profound is seldom your friend
and it keeps growing. Sometimes it just waits,
digs itself in deeper and becomes
immeasurable. Like any lonely giant
it wants company, and to wallow in the evanescent
you take for granted—the quavering, the perishable—
orchard-scent, bog-rot, burning alder.
Don’t try to look back.
Don’t try to know its whys and wherefores,
or the meaning of its archaic impulse to fill all
the shimmering spaces with its dumb longing.
Like any lonely god it is empty.
Blind, unappeasable . . .
Meanwhile the sunstruck water ripples
and strokes your appetite like music and you drift
which isn’t necessarily bad.
Do you think this is real?
No matter what seeds you may plant here,
no matter what soil-gripping trees along the ridge
you think might shelter this careful dream of home,
the giant’s deep tremor surges towards you like time,
like rapture, like a wave that wants nothing less
than to ravish your mapped and bannered homeland,
your troubled or untroubled hearth, your careful shrines,
your garden and your heart.