Hell &
after H.D.’s “Helen”
Tyler Friend
All this grease, these stained hands. Still eyes
like olives & stands of white hands
reaching up. All these Grecian revels, these smiling faces.
Remember the past? That was sick. We were sick &
our daughter unborn, thank God.
Tyler Friend is a non-binary, probably-human entity found in the rolling hills of Tennessee. When not writing (and often while writing), they teach high school, check out library books, and draw on post-it notes. They edit the online lit mag Francis House and design for Eulalia Books.
when i touch myself i think about a hand rubbing circles on my back
Danielle Rose
because want is like a hammer / & i flatten
like a paper fan / here is an analogy
it is grasslands then a forest
& then grasslands again
i am thinking
about a hand on my back
rubbing circles / & i flutter
like a girl discussing all the possibility
in the words if maybe / & if this is where my mind
travels during sex i cannot be a temple / i will not
become a cloud of incense & just quietly depart
because between my legs
is a valley i named & renamed & dedicated
again & again / on my back a hand a birdsong
a sudden frost / a detour / a way to make myself
into a fond memory that calmly drowns
Danielle Rose lives in Massachusetts with her partner & their two cats. She is the managing editor of Dovecote Magazine & used to be a boy. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Shallow Ends, Barren Magazine, GERTRUDE, Luna Luna Magazine, Empty Mirror, Homology Lit & elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter or at her website here.
noon beach scene
Jan Ball
Today, no black snake claims territory
coiled beneath the sea grapes to absorb
the noon sun like an ebony Victorian
funeral necklace displayed on the chest
of a buxom elderly lady in black satin
mourning.
Instead, beside the Gulf of Mexico,
the over-seventies stay inside at noon,
eat half a ham and cheese sandwich
with a cup of chicken noodle soup and
sometimes drink a glass of buttermilk,
the way my mother used to, sprinkling
salt, pepper and Tabasco sauce in it;
they stumble along the faded sand
at dawn in search of shell skeletons,
plastic supermarket bags in hand like
invasive brittle jellyfish ballooning
in the subtle breeze.
Tonight, at cheaper, early seating
Happy Hour, the blue-tinted women
emerge in helmut hair and chic knee
length shorts and blouses with YSL
logos on the pocket to sip Rob Roys
or “tinas” as martinis are euphemized
on Longboat Key, accompanied by hearty
balding men in Tommy Bahama plaid
pants who later smoke cigars outside
companionably, then pick at their salmon
filets with a Caesar salad side until
the waiter, inconspicuously brings the bill
and soon prepares the table for the next
customers:
four water glasses with knives
and forks in a navy blue paper
napkin.
Jan has had 299 poems published in various journals including: Atlanta Review, Calyx, Chiron, Connecticut Review and Nimrod, in Australia, Canada, Czechoslovakia, England, India and The U.S.. Jan’s two chapbooks and full length poetry collection, I Wanted To Dance With My Father, are available from Finishing Line Press and Amazon. When not traveling, Jan and her husband like to cook for friends.