4/4/2022 0 Comments Poetry by Jamie Gamboa Nathalie CC
Psychological Autopsy II We moved out of the old apartment on Figueroa Terrace. I had to say goodbye to the balcony overlooking the city where I sat huddled for hours, your voice on speaker phone so I could imagine you sitting next to me. I worry that if you came back from the dead you wouldn’t know where to find me. Our friend Lauren believes in ghosts. She said she saw you in our new kitchen on Halloween night, clattering dirty dishes in the sink as if trying to help. I don’t want you to be trapped in this world you took such lengths to leave, but you are here in the red and gold Hello Kitty tea set you gave me on my wedding day. You are here in the Totoro mug and the medicinal tea bags you mailed in a care package when I was sick. The walls are decorated with 13 years’ worth of Halloween cards from you with your handwritten messages inside, wishing me— Happy Halloween, Teamaker! I still have the first Valentine’s Day card you made for me, cutting and pasting words from a magazine to spell out a message that resembles a ransom note from a criminal- How it will end? Heart-burned. Dear roommate, please don’t eat me. You decorated the inside of the card with a photograph of two gory blue eyes torn out by their bloody roots. It is pasted on gray construction paper, now sun-bleached and worn, so delicate I am afraid to touch it. I cannot imagine an afterlife for you where you are happy, just as I cannot imagine a world where you are well, but I let myself imagine a world where you decided to live with your illness, where you learned to curl lovingly around your agony and whisper to it soothingly, as if to a colicky child, until it quieted. Do you remember how I begged you to move here with me to California? I imagine a world where one day you accepted when I’d almost given up on asking. I imagine re-parenting you. When you were sad, I would refill your teacup and listen to the sound of your sorrows spilling on the ground between us. I would show you how to shrink them, heavy as they are, small enough to fit in your pocket. I would tell you that I love you. I would dump your whiskey down the sink, the way I once threw my grandfather’s cigarettes in the garbage and piled trash on top of them so he couldn’t dig them out again. I would teach you how to separate fear from love until they were no longer intertwined in your mind. Do you remember when we were roommates how hard it was for me to accept the reality of day, how I climbed down the ladder from the top bunk over your sleeping body every morning to hit the snooze button on my alarm clock, and then fell asleep on the carpet, the alarm still in my hand, snoozing in eight-minute cycles until you stood over me face set in an expression somehow both patient and annoyed and told me-It’s time to wake up now. You can’t stay down on the ground forever. I never told you how, after falling back asleep one morning on our dorm room floor, I dreamed you and I were old women together, sitting on our front porch in rocking chairs, a pot of tea between us and steaming mugs in our wrinkled hands. It was so real that when I opened my eyes, I couldn’t believe how young you were. Already, you believed an unknowable someone was videotaping and watching you in the shower, although you hadn’t told me about it yet. I remember how you tilted your head strangely at a plastic monkey on my desk with a painted-on grin, said-I think Cornelius wants to eat my liver, or maybe my spleen, and how, thinking you were joking, I told you Cornelius only feasted upon the internal organs of first-year students, so you didn’t have to worry. After that, you requested to borrow him whenever you had an assignment due, so fear of his plastic gaze would motivate you not to procrastinate. Cornelius lives on my bookshelf now. I packed him in a box and when I opened it, he was in a new place. You are here in this new place with us. I bring you back to life every time I imagine a world where you believed me when I told you you wouldn’t stay down on the ground forever, where you let yourself grow until you were ready to sit on the porch with me, holding your younger selves in your arms and rocking them lovingly to sleep. Theseus’ Paradox I. In high school Chemistry, I learned you shouldn’t make a liar out of a label, the danger of storing things where they don’t belong. You can’t predict how something will react when you don’t know what it is. In my childhood bedroom, a blocky desktop computer bore a label proclaiming her Kyoko. My mobile phone was Sallie, my second-hand silver Mercedes Stella, so similar to Estrella, the name I adopted myself in Spanish class because Jamie isn’t Spanish pronunciation and Jaime is a boy’s name. I needed everyone to know what I am and am not. II. The polka dot plant is called Yaya. Yaya’s slender stalk I sheltered all the way home from New York gave birth to one small purple bud before wilting and withering away. New growth burst up from beneath to replace it. I wonder sometimes if the plant is still Yaya. I tell my clients in therapy sessions, the ones who don’t believe change is possible, that if you ask a 20-year-old how much they’ll change by age 30 they might say: not much, but ten years later: Oh my God, I’m not even the same person. When do you think this stops? Surely by 80 or 90, you’re fully-baked, right? But no, if you ask a 90-year-old woman how much she’s changed in ten years she will laugh and say: Oh my God, I’m not even the same person which implies we’re not finished until we’re finished, and by finished, I mean dead- and not dead the way a perennial plant dies for a season, or dead the way a plant grows through propagation- bulbous, tumor-like rhizome slowly swelling from the place I severed with sterilized scissors- but the way you died, Jenn- finished but still unfinished. Nothing new will grow out of you, dead at 31. III. I didn’t choose the label of suicide loss survivor, but how can I complain when you fought so hard for a label to organize your experience, make it make sense. There was no space for you in the regular ward after your overdose on Mother’s Day. You were told to go to a different hospital. Why do you want to come here? You just discharged from this hospital. You didn’t fit. They put you in the geriatric ward. Took you off anti-depressants, then back on them. Took away your anti-psychotics even though you thought they helped. The doctor thought you were too organized to have a psychotic disorder, diagnosed you with borderline personality instead. You struggled to understand what this meant about you, as a patient, as a person. You thought they were really saying you were difficult, messy, attention-seeking. You asked me over and over to remind you your suffering wasn’t your fault. You work in research, the resident said. Why didn’t you research the amount of pills you needed to kill yourself? You thought they were really asking if your overdose was a cry for help or if you truly needed help. Help me. I don’t understand the distinction. IV. After your suicide, I used to wake in the night with images of your body decaying, things growing where they don’t belong, defacing you, the boundaries between soil and human form degrading into nothing, your body undertaking that gradual change, turning into something else, rotting instead of aging, no way to know the exact moment you cease to be- Theseus’ paradox: if every part of a ship is replaced gradually piece by piece, when does it stop being the same ship? Maybe time is a blood transfusion, and over time the despair living in you could have been diluted, smaller and smaller until you could bear it, your suffering no longer terminal, instead a pin-prick from a past life, or maybe things were taking root in your open wounds. It was a relief to remember you were cremated. V. I tattooed a teapot on the left side of my chest next to two round teacups ready to receive whatever comes out. When I think of you, I put my hand over the ink, over my heart, like I’m still in elementary school and I have to stand up to recite the pledge of allegiance, and maybe when I’m 80 I will still put my hand over my heart, like I did in elementary school, like I do now. Jamie Gamboa studied poetry as an undergraduate at Sarah Lawrence College. She is now a clinical psychologist and co-founder of a suicide prevention organization, Spotlight on Suicide (SOS). Believe it or not, psychology and poetry have much in common: both rely on the power of metaphor and storytelling to create meaning in ways that help us move forward. Previous work has been published under her maiden name (Gersh) in Tryst poetry, Little Red Tree Press, and Gutter Eloquence.
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4/4/2022 1 Comment Poetry by Joanell Serra Isaac Bowen CC
the atlas of dolor 1 I’m here for the magic the lines in my palms an atlas that always points south a sage in the form of a man emerges like a vision from the leafy path of saguaros, wild birds and scampering lizards whispers in delicate Spanish you will know pain like never before but you will live 2 on bleak November afternoons I sing a hollow dirge to lost innocence my tongue stained from gnashing summer berries and the marrow of our grief in the country of childhood pioneers roam forbidden nights plant a flag to prove sovereignty my soul escapes through the open windows I dance in a place where bodies lie fallow 3 I know the hoofbeats of time in my own eyes listen to the river mouth sing with the rustling of stones polished by life’s rough waters I am carving my place in this world and a fresh wood canoe to carry ripe mangos old stories and my bones back to you Summer Scribe of Lake Kanawauke, 1977 on the last Saturday morning in June I extricate myself from the house of messy boundaries mother’s swollen joints, dad’s Italian temper a red bandanna marks my backpack on the lumbering journey from the sweltering streets of Hackensack to a rustic camp for young Christian women tucked in the folds of the Catskill mountains on the pebbled shores of a lake with a native name that laps melodic after dark the old cabin planks are warped from the weight of generations of girls and their clammy secrets the screens windows are full of holes moths rest on our pillowcases bats in the rafters at night I climb to the top bunk to write by the light of the moon drunk with passion for my cabin mates and the counselors who play love songs on long-necked guitars I scribble odes to the sound of canoe paddles dipping in unison and grasshopper symphonies across the water my words rise with the illicit cigarette smoke from the counselors’ quarters please, I plead to the man I am told watches from above let this be home JOANELL SERRA is a poet, playwright, novelist and essayist from Northern California, with work published in Eclectica, Blue Lake Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Manifest-station, Gold Man Review, Write Launch, 1888, Poydras Review and elsewhere. Books include The Vines We Planted (Wido, 2018) and (Her)oics Anthology, a collection of women's essays about the pandemic (Regal House Publishing, 2021). Her work has won multiple writing contests. 4/4/2022 1 Comment Poetry by Natasha Bredle Nathalie CC
Plush i remember when it went like this: the boy in third grade gave me a plush dog for valentine’s day & i named it love, because how else could it go? in the books: flip a page & there he is, applying the band-aid with soft-gauze lips. like a breeze of liminality: if there’s any smoke, it’s dispersed gone, in a second, before a wanderlust shade of febreeze floods the room & floating is real. but close the book & poof, all that’s real is puncture hovering at the altar between my two temples, not my heart, whose space is crowded with thumping, as if it recognizes i’m alive but not breathing. how does this happen? like this: he vanishes like a glass slipper & leaves & forgets, burdening me with the memory. can he blame me for asking where did the plush dog go? & those clover crowns & the rings we crafted from card paper on idle nights? on my nails i trace the outline of his hand & remember when it went like this: alone at recess with a broken leg until the boy sits down beside me & asks if he can draw a heart on my cast. Natasha Bredle is a young (but fortunately not starving) artist based in Ohio. She writes about what she thinks about, which is really too much for her poor brain. You can find her work in Aster Lit, The Aurora Journal, and Second Chance Lit, to name a few. 4/4/2022 2 Comments Poetry by Andrea Lawler Nathalie CC
My Current Partner asks about my First Love and immediately I can smell the stench of Marlboro Golds in my long, unwashed hair. I think of Matchbox Twenty and getting high on Christmas Eve right before walking into his mother’s third new house in two years. I think of neon sex toys, cat hair, and one unsuccessful blowjob in the movie theatre. I don’t even remember the name of the film. I think of Arizona – how miserable it is in July. How ironic it was staying in Paradise Valley while we were living in an opiate hell. I think of satin pillowcases and soapy hands – how gently he washed my hair in the sink when we were homeless. I think of hotel sheets and takeout. I think of driving with no destination. I think of weight loss, sleeping never or for forever. I think of overdosing - the disappointment that came with waking up realizing not even I could do that properly. I think of him getting sent away. How I’d stayed. Here is what I meant to say: I am reaching out for him in the dark, always. Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, feminist, crazy cat lady, and small town girl with a big heart. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. While not writing about sex and death, you can find her at the local coffee shop. mrhayata CC
Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna go eat worms Back in grade school we said it as a joke but it was never funny. I’ve never tasted one but I can still taste the year I turned nine when those other girls learned to be mean. It would take me longer. Penelope Scambly Schott is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry. Her most recent books are ON DUFUR HILL about her small wheat-growing town in central Oregon and SOPHIA AND MISTER WALTER WHITMAN co-written with her dog. 4/4/2022 0 Comments Poetry by Eleanor Fatharly Currency spend gold on the world you want to see... ...spend nothing on the thoughts you cannot be Eleanor Fatharly is an MA student at The University of Lincoln studying Creative Writing. Her honesty and vulnerability can be seen throughout her experimental poetry as she tries to grow through her uncertain, early twenties. Her work can be seen in Odd Magazine and the anthology ‘Trigger Warning’ by blood moon POETRY. 4/4/2022 0 Comments Poetry by W Roger Carlisle Raito Akehanareru CC
Cracker Barrel My Mom and Dad grew up on a farm in depression times. We stopped at Cracker Barrel often to use the bathroom, eat lunch, buy mountains of festive-smelling holiday decor from the Old Country Store. My death-shadowed mother delighted in the miniature rustic farms, quaintly lit churches in perfectly decorated Christmas villages, admired vintage grandpa and grandma mugs and sweatshirts, thousands of cellophane-wrapped expectations, blue rocking chairs adorned with painted flowers, jars of horehound candy, red pistachios, peanut brittle, Laffy Taffy, Lemonheads, Root Beer Barrels, saltwater taffy, and licorice whips. We sat and shared memories of Granny’s kitchen, often connected to Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions, vintage foods directly from the pages of “Good Housekeeping”, jello salad filled with fruit cocktail topped with Rediwhip, angel food cake, tuna surprise covered with potato chips, tomato aspic with lemon-flavored gelatin, minced onions, and tomato sauce. What was most grand and beautiful about this rambling store was a faith in things unseen, imagining you could regain what you lost or never had, wandering and remembering my Grandpa rocking in his rocker, in his blue chambray work shirt, Dickies bib overalls, his smoldering cigar resting on the edge of a bean bag ashtray while he devoured a bag of horehound drops. We didn't say much after lunch. My parents finished eating and stared blankly at their empty plates. I sat in my seat feeling overwhelmed, aware of my breathing, sensing my losses, and the absoluteness of the end. W Roger Carlisle is a 75-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He grew up in Oklahoma and was a history major in college. He has been writing poetry for 11 years, and is a nominee for a 2021 Pushcart Prize. He is currently on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process. 4/4/2022 0 Comments Poetry by Emily Laubham Sharon Robins CC
Pink-lit Afternoons It’s a fond affair on pink-lit afternoons when people and animals look up, unprompted by cardinals, crows, or satellites. No shrouded god or patient aliens. Just up like their names were whispered, and while their eyes are lifted, they notice and linger in their looking. It’s empty space we might fall into, gladly and together. Emily is a writer in Pittsburgh, PA. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in publications including Contrary Magazine, Flash: The International Short Story Magazine, Ping-Pong Literary Journal, Pif Magazine, and Autumn Sky Poetry. 4/4/2022 1 Comment Poetry by Charlotte Hamrick Nathalie CC
Caught in the Cloudy Eye The bottomland rose up, a hard, broken ripening. I fell into its cloudy eye, wrapped myself in tear-dripped moss. I sewed myself out of my softness, held myself out of the sun, settled in. The center of myself fell before the stillness, the center of myself stunned, dull and cool. I held myself beneath the air, my center without breath, without a friend. I imprisoned myself beneath the moss. Pulled close the gate with my own hands, my own heart. Everything is Temporary My grandmother had a blood red rose that twirled around a post on her front porch. There’s a picture of me standing next to it when my eyes were still fresh and she was in the kitchen cooking tiny butter beans just picked that morning by my grandfather's hands. Thumbing through the old photo album I pause at that photo, remember how my dad dug up the rose before the old house was sold, replanted it in my parents backyard. A few pages later there it is, twirling over my parents porch, now only a picture in an album. Gone from this earth, like my grandparents, like my mother, one day, like all of us. Charlotte Hamrick has been published in a number of literary journals including Emerge Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ekphrastic Review, MORIA, and Poetry Foundation’s Harriet Blog and has had multiple literary nominations. She is Features Editor for Reckon Review and Creative Nonfiction Editor for The Citron Review. She lives in New Orleans with her husband and a menagerie of rescued pets. 4/4/2022 1 Comment Poetry by Grace Phillips Alexandra Frolova CC
Haikus for the Bull in the China Shop Church bells are ringing in your honor, but you don’t hear them now, do you? I think it’s funny that a bull like you could have a heart made of glass. What turned you into this bull in a China shop? Which of us broke first? Cracks in your glass-blown skin give way to stone beneath, you had to get tough. What choice did you have? Bullheaded pipsqueak, fighting for your life, don’t shatter. You were made of glass long before my hands found you. Somebody broke you, Didn’t anyone read the sign? Fragile: Handle With Care, Contains Glass. People can help you, you know, just let them inside. The bull in you can be set free, I swear. There’s no need to hide behind your China shop walls. Church bells are ringing in your honor, but you can’t hear them now, can you? The sound of broken glass is too loud, the bull’s blood staining glass windows across the walls of the church we loved and can’t find our way back to. Track Two: Poem as Texts I Sent to Her Before She Died Hey Queen I need your knowledge This is gonna make me sound like the literal worst person Is your roommate there? Hello Julia tell Julia I wish I was high and drunk and buried. I have to tell you something. Can I tell you something? I think you need to call the police. Smoking kills you but you look hella cool doing it. Hmm whack okay okay okay whack k K. Okay kay Ok Kk Hey sorry I forgot to reply forgot to reply to this sorry got busy and didn’t see this didn’t see this sorry ok sorry sorry sorry sorry Yikes I’m sorry are you still mad at me You’re such a fucking bitch sometimes. Keep it. Whatever it is, I don’t want it. Is everything okay? Hey I haven’t heard from you in awhile. Hey. Hey. Hey. Just checking in :) Your mom called me again. Where are you? people are getting worried Hey call me back when you get this. Please call me back. Goodnight Goodbye Goodnight Goodbye Goodnight Goodbye Goodbye Goodbye What did you do? I miss you. -Message Undelivered- Grace Phillips is a writer and MFA student from Indianapolis, IN. She is currently a graduate student at Butler University, and spends her free time petting her cats, starting conversations with strangers, or bothering her siblings. More of Grace's work can be found on her website gracewritesbooks.com. |
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