Author: Marcelle Newbold

the lonely mountain apotheosis

H. Sanders

In the mountains at night,
eating beans and drinking
whiskey you’ll look at the
fire and the fire is all else.

you make you happy, being
alone for a while, being
the only thing for a while.

Some say God is Fire and is Other
and so for all intents and purposes
it’s you and God in a black space
of no echo, the occasional sleepy
gnat, angel, ghost drifting up and
over with the embers, so synchronized
it seems he’s met them before.
and the ground if you could be sure it still existed would be
black,
and the dampened fallen trees if you could be sure they still existed would be
black
and the static fizzing ocean if you could be sure it still existed would be
black
and the curious ground squirrels black,
the clustered hill flowersblack
and
no sound
passes the popping logs and
no thing
is seen past the smoke but
Suddenly—
there is a fire elsewhere you can see,
in all the blackness, a fire.
there is a blur across it,
an orbiting body. This
body makes you happy,
though you will not test
the blackness to touch it,
but you are glad for more
bodies in your universe
and you wish them well,
you wish them whiskey,
you wish them beans,
and a soft sleep when
the gods burn out.

H. Sanders

Floral Transport

Patricia Davis-Muffett

Glass lily glow, furiously reaching, twisting
into other blooms, seeking a higher shelf
like the ladder slid along the bookshelf–
the one you found to reclaim
this hated room–meant to reach
Bishop Caruth Collins
so far above my lowly station
on the fainting couch, divan,
Craigslist sofa for one woman, one
black dog warming feet, patched leather
where cat clawed, puppy scratched.
Eye to eye with
Olds, Oliver, Paz, Rich,
where my water glass holds court
beads of sweat slicking sides,
where the tiger’s eye protector
gift from my child, childhood
stuffed dog, old nose bleached,
in this place where the quilt covers my legs,
this quilt pieced for me alone, its
raucous colors the colors of my mind.
Overhead, more glass flowers, calm
in whites and purples, orchids
like the ones you buy me
over and over, the orchids
that return me to the garden
where we danced to fiddle,
hammer dulcimer, drove north
into Badlands, into mountains,
into forest, turned to each other
in the silence of backcountry
and reached for each other’s hands.

Patricia Davis-Muffett

Wallpaper

Birdy Odell

Four walls, a floor, a door
A cottage
Nothing more
And beneath the crooked roof
Within
The hearth that warms both kith
And kin
A table worn and
Bookshelves heaving
Clocks keep time to joy
And grieving
A blanket warm
A candle burns
And in the dark of night
Returns
The moon to light the pathway home
Guide the wanderer on their own
While battles rage and bullets fall
Still safe within
These papered walls

Birdy Odell

snug

Emily Perkovich

i’m awash in rose petals
soaked in silk
a mouth cups smoke

/there is a space where i slip in the air, a place where the rain dances against the roof, a place where the window cracks just enough/

dust gathers in the corners
we slip upstairs in a wolf-pack
glow, soft in blue-light

/i tiptoe on concrete, pull grass from roots, dig fingers in earth/we tiptoe on skin, pull hair from roots, dig fingers in ribs/

you sleep in the alcove
i wake half-asleep

Emily Perkovich

Hold On

Eve Croskery

We are nestled in bed
together, propped up on pillows,

a nest to hold our love.

You sink into my unfurling chest,
ripple with my breath,

fragile and strong and feather-soft.

If only we could forever float
in this sacred space

where sea meets sky.

I was told to sleep while I can
but how can I, when I can tuck myself

into your warmth, gaze at your shape,
drink you in as time bends,

stretches like honey, this moment

already a memory melting away.
You’ll never be one week old again

and so, I hold on tight.

Eve Croskery