Awakening
Lisa Lerma Weber
Category: renaissance (Issue No. II)
she tells me to imagine a place of peace
she tells me to imagine a place of peace
alyssa hanna
i can’t think of anywhere the wind won’t reach me.
all i can see is a river, babbling brook, winding through the forest
of the summer camp i went to as a child; she tells
me to close my eyes— look around,
ground yourself, try this next time you wake from
another violent vision. she says another because we both know
that they will never stop coming. an
orchid grows and dies.
in the stream i feel the stones beneath my thumbs, the smoothness enough
to make me run river myself, raining morning and
night, listen to the sounds, what do you hear? can you engage with your
surroundings? can you take
a step forward?
gorge and canyon and valley. the rays of the sun sift through
the trees but never reach the bottommost places. and at the mountain peak i am
still buried beneath the bodies
of landscapes, the night terrors crawling edges along my spine, my knees,
the feeling that in this peace i am going to
die— what i want to tell her is that
the place i am calmest is still just a panic attack; that
in this place of peace, i am only reminded that i have never
even had a place i have allowed peace to find me.Feedback to the Director
Feedback to the Director
While studying to play Viola in Twelfth Night
William Conelly
Don’t showcase me.
And while you leave
my brother’s corpse
adrift at sea,
don’t twist a knife
in listeners’ hearts
pronouncing on
the drift of life.If there’s a lock,
that can’t be it.
I can’t walk back
initial shock
ignoring how
a fate that killed
—and may again—
is my fate now.Likewise the song:
faint instruments,
in minor keys,
are simply wrong.
Engage the lute
in firm accord
with a silver, lightly
mastered flute.This is the tune
Orsino feels
as nourishment,
not soulful wound,
its phrasing neat,
its charm at once
the fanciful
and clear concrete:
What country, friends,
is this, to rise
from slashing seas,
through failing winds,
and proffer us
renewal—there!—
its shore a fluid
radiance!Treading Water in a Sea of Consciousness
Treading Water in a Sea of Consciousness
Essie Dee
Everything matches. Towel, suit, goggles and swim cap. Even her anklet is the same shade of blue. She will blend in, become one with the water, in hue at least. Creeping along the pool deck, she longs to remain unnoticed. Her eyes dart about, taking in the potential audience. Three other swimmers in the pool, all in the fast lanes, and a few yawning lifeguards. With a deep breath, she feigns confidence, head up with an air of authority.
Sitting at pool edge she lets her legs dangle in, coolness of the water washing over her knees. It’s colder than she remembers, but then, it has been a while. As she swishes goggles in the blueness, she looks down at herself. Scarred and stretch marked, her body a battle zone. She gazes upon the water pooling around her legs, the coolness awakening something within. Her muscles twitch in memory of time spent in constant motion. She closes her eyes briefly and takes another deep breath, not of confidence but repression.
A hazy memory clings to present day. One last race, a short distance triathlon, before focusing on her ever-growing abdomen. A zebra mussel starts it all on the beach – cut foot crammed into less than clean bike shoes. Searing pain subdues the run, a quiet ambush of training. A crimson silhouette creeps along her sole, with a warmth not suitable for walking. Then sudden illness, things turn grey. Rhythmic beeping from the bedside, shadow figures loom nearby. A vague sense of words. Sepsis. Amputation. Her world becomes dark. Unconscious. Decisions made. Her unborn seized too soon. Infections follow. Cries of the future shall not be heard.
She awakes to tragedy.
Goggles adjusted, she spies something to the side of the pool deck and pauses. Slowly gathering herself she stands, saunters over and selects a kickboard. Blue, like everything else. Back to the water’s edge, she unfolds herself into the water.
It’s a struggle, exhausting. The kickboard was a good idea. Despite the agony in her lungs, her limbs, she is delighted to be active again. To feel pain for reason and purpose rather than just part of her everyday existence. One lap completed, she stands at the end of the lane to catch her breath.
She carries on in this manner, one lap after another, clinging to the kickboard and pausing for rest at the end of each turn. More alive with each passing. More like the self she thought she had left behind.
renaissance – micropoems
In the leadup to our second issue, renaissance, we shared a series of micropoems from some talented submitters:
Sunday Morning
Sunday Morning
Rachel B. Baxter
Sunday morning,
parts of me are peeking out
from under my nightgown and
my eyes have not yet opened fully.so sweet
He whispers, and I think he’s referring
to the giggles and coos that are echoing
off of the wood floor from down the hall,
shooting up from the crib and sprinkling the new day
like holy water shaken from a pine branch.But, he isn’t looking to the crib,
no, he’s looking at me in my slipshod nightgown,
breasts full and heavy with milk,
eyelashes stuck together with a forgotten day’s mascara,
an attempt at beauty.I open my eyes and smile at him smiling back,
kiss him and say goodbye
before picking up the baby
who is calling after him,
da-da, da-da,
as he waves, breathes, and closes the door.
