ISSUE 87
CONTENTS
JUNE 2022
Andrés Castro
Shelby Poulin
Sheila McMullin
Melissa Eleftherion
Carrie George
Gigi Guizado
Jeri Theriault
Tracie Nichols
Elizabeth Burk
Dane Lyn
CONTRIBUTORS
Image description: A roughly circular image with a gray eye at the center. The eye is framed and decorated with predominately red and white flowers, leaves, jewels, and a feather. Where the eyebrow would be is a curved pale green leaf.
Andrés Castro
I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE
Body, please find it
in your sixty-three-year-old heart
to forgive me,
as well as this warring nation.
We have failed you.
That I that depends on your eyes
knows every part of you,
down to cells, has been abused.
How could I ever be
my brother’s keeper
if I cannot keep you?
Grey matter, thank you for making
it possible to know the U.S.
(not of which it stands)
from what it does: turn bodies
into cash slaves, commodities,
& corpses.
Gut, thank you for the signs
I have a soul
like other souls that want peace
for a tortured planet.
Dear Body, traveling
between the top of your head
to your toes, I know
we were born for better.
I pledge allegiance to you.
Shelby Poulin
STEW
I am the over-heated,
worn-down
piece of technology
searing your skin.
I fail to meet demands
and the whole world
buffers—
for that,
you rabidly smash
my keys
with your palm.
Once, a while ago,
an English teacher said
you have an old soul, but
I am running out of excuses
in a sharp
square-
edged silicon
world.
My calendar juts
abandoned from a trash
bin. My bones aren’t built
for the space-age; I’m busy
tasting red licorice and sorting
with curious buds the cherry
from synthetic
sweetness
finding my soul
unsheathed by one bird
chiming off a mathematically
perfect song
watching
the yellow orb
of a pendulum light
sway in the air
conditioning
like a planet rocking.
Sheila McMullin
OF PRESENCE, IF IT SHOULD BE INHERITED, T.T.C.
Today we switch / you be Eve and I’ll be the extraterrestrial
I was a girl once / light fracturing to touch me
under the cartilage of my first wound words fall from my lips / toads out of my mouth / jewels out of my mouth / hands cupped over mirrors /
under the cartilage of my first wound / an old woman in a photograph / a photograph of five generations of women / an old woman, once a young mother, caught in domestic violence / as her daughter ran / police sirens
under the cartilage of my first wound / my great great grandfather’s suicide / those who witnessed / the mother who protected her children / the daughter who ran to protect herself / one day gives birth to my grandmother
this is the memory passed down / through skin and muscle /
under the cartilage of my first wound / her eyes won’t meet mine / arms folded /
the inherited body / how to retract
three generations / in one pregnant person / the parent, the fetus, the fetus’ eggs forming in the developing ovaries /
Now, I’ll be Eve and you be the extraterrestrial
light refracts / I was a girl once under water
Tomorrow in the middle of the night I will wake up with blood between my legs / I will learn I am not pregnant / even though I have been trying /
under the cartilage of my first wound / a presumption the body behaves / the price of piecemealing history / hypervigilance
under the cartilage of my very first wound / advice / happens all the time / keep trying / let it happen naturally /
this too is the effort of my mother / the blood has to go somewhere / I blame the memory of biology /
Data is supposed to have power / tell me which herbs to take / help doctors intervene / intervene upon a body that began learning its place generations ago
under the cartilage of my first wound / months / I am dutifully tracking my cycle and basal body temperature / reading books / improving my body literacy / taking vitamins / avoiding foods / listening to doctors / and my temperature elevates / I am late / diligence is rewarded /
under the cartilage of my first wound / there is blood between my legs / meaning-making my inabilities / month after month after month after month after month
under the cartilage of my very first wound / data as the tool of control / soothing the inflamed inheritance / we fought to create life before / would it end with me
under the cartilage of my first wound / a decision to stop /
the blood has to go somewhere / learn to look at myself while angry / but not angry at myself
Again let’s switch / I’m the extraterrestrial now / and you go be Eve
I was a girl once under water / bending the light for capture
under the cartilage of my first wound / I can tell you what it offers
The nascence / and the dying process / to gain this life while losing it
It is not your job to dedicate to one version of any story for a lifetime /nor offer your body as the venue of high-minded debate /
Although, I do pray for a greater capacity / to meet disappointment at the pain belying details /
Keep pace with the speed of meaning-making / digest the pain / not pass it on
Melissa Eleftherion
THREE OF SWORDS & MIMETIC ECDYSIS
You say it didn’t happen
like that - tears at the
fabric - a rending of
absolutes
Having prepared
myself mentally, I breathe & ask questions
What is your first memory of an odor?
At what age did your walls turn to blood?
You say my body has no memory of its own
Sourbreath pancakes on the motherpeace linoleum
Dark stain of wood grain on your palm
I reflect back your hardship nostalgia
Your worry about microorganisms
You say smell this and tell me if it’s bad
You say I only wanted to protect you
Carrie George
FALSE MEMORY OF THE WORST BIRTHDAY PRESENT I EVER RECEIVED
I unshed the gift wrapping
and Autumn’s mother smiled at me.
I was nine and the other girls
could wrap their fingers around
their wrists like tiny lace
like delicate stems
spooled comfortably
around a housefly’s thorax.
Who was I when I first noticed
my spilling over? What maze
led me, like a field mouse
up and down each slope
of my body until I memorized
the salt and smooth
and allowed my fingers
to follow?
I was nine when the other girls
began to shrink. Each day, it seemed,
they shrunk and melted
into the floor like hot
licorice, like sugar
tracked over by ants
with their tongues out and sloppy.
They’re shrinking matched
my growing. Conservation
Law in translation: no body created
or destroyed,
only transferred
to the chosen vessel
of girlhood, made suddenly older
by its newly acquired
weight.
I did not ask to contain this.
This bending spine, this heap
-ing ache growing paper-sharp
and cutting as it reaches
back to rise each day stronger
and asks to borrow
a little bit more of me.
It’s not them, the other
girls, the mothers wrapping
wire and fabric
with flashy bows,
the scale, balanced out
by one of me and uncountable
them—
The day I remember,
long, soaked and pungent
with growing.
Gigi Guizado
SPILLED SUGAR
Sweetness wasted
untasted
Each morning I wipe the counter clean
Spilled seed
not for me
Each morning I pick up the laundry
count on one hand
words spoken each day
number of messes
rinsed along the way
My tongue knows
the bitterness of your earwax
How many times
my sweet-talk rolled off your back
Spilled sugar
sticks to the soles of my feet
as I slip through your grasp
raw and sweet
Jeri Theriault
CAVE HOLLOW
even in your mother’s
womb
you carried
the start of daughter
thirst &
lake glitter
flow & ice
fear-fraught
ink-taut
an awed body
this same earth
s[h]elf
full
of want & broken
weight
Tracie Nichols
IT WAS YEARS BEFORE I UNDERSTOOD NOT ALL MY PLAYGROUND FRIENDS…
choked
on unsought moisture
forced
through every mucus-lined threshold
a small girl body forms
in trusting
fetal exuberance.
Always sticky and sore.
It was so hard to jump rope.
Elizabeth Burk
INTERNSHIP—PITTSBURGH, 1981
I worked the suicide hotline
for a six-month stint. Time
stretched, a rubber band pulled
between wrists. Mine were not yet
cut or mutilated, my legs still
un-scarred by scrapes or burns. Up
and down my arms veins pulsed
inviting scissors, knives
and razors like the ones my clinic patient
handed me for safe-keeping—
a silent threat of intent. I left the blades
in my office drawer for whoever
needed them next. Undone by diapers,
dishes, laundry, garbage bags bursting
with empty bottles, roaches
scuttling under bare bulbs,
a dissertation I couldn’t write,
a husband drinking day
into night, I often thought about
dialing myself on that hotline
but didn’t have time to make the call
nor energy to answer the ringing phone
nor would I have known what to say
to the person I was running from
at the end of the line.
Dane Lyn
LOST AND FOUND DETACHABLE PENIS
(after King Missile’s “Detachable Penis”)
“I got another cock for you”
my street vendor friend grumbled into a cheap connection.
“you better come look at it before the owner
comes stumbling around. one man’s loss...”
sleep crunchy eyes shook off the fog—
I sought caffeine and as I head out,
I wonder who lost it, this
penis; that is
to say that this loss might be all about
masculinity, dressed up to party, getting drunk and misplacing itself.
but maybe it is meant to be mine, this particular
penis, that is.
maybe the people who scour the frat boy drunk streets for treasure
were just as oblivious as the one who misplaced it, but I knew the power a dick could hold.
I got to the Second Avenue block where I knew I could find my accomplice
he was standing in front of a diner, blanket spread out on sidewalk—
soon to be covered with the eclectic mix of knock-offs and resale items.
he was picking off a sharpie-scrawled, neon pink circle,
from the shaft of his latest salvage.
I approached him, and could make out the “$22” written on the price tag.
he grinned conspirator-like, “for you it's free the
penis. that is,
nothing else.” his generosity was quite unexpected, so
I leaned over his blanket, and brushed a bearded cheek with my kiss;
my thoughts returned to how it never fails to shock me
when someone treats this organ with such banality—
a cavalier cast off, to never again
bulge in its original denim, their
penis. that is
too much for me to consider now— far too early in the day
I scooped it up, brought it in so close
that my examination even detected the scent of
last night’s cheap beer revelry.
I inspected its ridges, traced them with a thumb.
I liked how it looked in my hands,
how it complimented my short, black, nail-polish chipped, fingernails.
I scraped away at the adhesive left over from the garage sale style price tag,
and since the streets were empty I gave into my urging,
to lift it aloft, like lion royalty—
to use the morning sun to conduct my examination—
it was long, circumcised, rather thin, and unassuming,
but as my index finger circled the lip I came to see
that it had a curve, one that I wanted to see devoured.
so, yes I wanted it, this lost and found, detachable
penis, that is
I agreed when my opportunist friend fumbled through
the pack belted at his waist,
pulled out a crumpled grocery bag,
shook it into the wind, and said,
“whoever lost it doesn’t fucking deserve it.”
Issue 87 Contributors
Elizabeth Burk is a psychologist who divides her time between New York and southwest Louisiana. She is the author of three collections: Learning to Love Louisiana, Louisiana Purchase and Duet—Poet & Photographer, a collaboration with her photographer husband. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Rattle, Calyx, Louisiana Literature, Passager, PANK and elsewhere.
Andrés Castro, a PEN member, is listed in Poets and Writers Directory. He keeps a personal blog, The Practicing Poet: Dialogue to Creativity, Poetry, and Liberation. He blogs at https://thepracticingpoet.edublogs.org/ .
Melissa Eleftherion is a cis queer human, a writer, a librarian, and a visual artist. She is the author of field guide to autobiography (The Operating System, 2018), & ten chapbooks, including trauma suture (above/ground press, 2020), & abalone (poems-for-all, 2021). Her work has been widely published in various journals including The Berkeley Poetry Review, La Vague, & On the Seawall, and nominated for the Pushcart Prize & Best of the Net. Born & raised in Brooklyn, Melissa created, developed, and co-curates The San Francisco State Poetry Center Chapbook Exchange with Elise Ficarra. She now lives in Northern California where she manages the Ukiah Library, curates the LOBA Reading Series, and serves as the Poet Laureate of Ukiah. Recent work is available at www.apoetlibrarian.wordpress.com.
Carrie George is an MFA candidate for poetry at the Northeast Ohio MFA program. She is the graduate fellow at the Wick Poetry Center where she teaches poetry workshops throughout the community. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work has appeared in Peach Mag, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Indianapolis Review, and elsewhere.
Gigi Guizado is an actor, writer, and theatre translator from Spanish. She is the Resident Playwright at The Asylum Theatre in Las Vegas. She plays “The Boar'' in the audio drama We’re Alive: Descendants. Her micro-play, Letter to a Clone Manufacturer, has been translated into Hungarian. Her poetry has been published in The Emerson Review, Salamander Ink Magazine, The Bluebird Word, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Poet’s Choice. Her translations have been published in Another Chicago Magazine, Asymptote Journal, and featured on Performing International Plays. Her translation of the award-winning play, The Therapist by Gabriela Yepes, is forthcoming from Inti Press. Her website is www.gigiguizado.com.
Dane Lyn is a nuerodivergent, poet, and glitter enthusiast with an MFA from Lindenwood University. Find them in L.A. with their partner, constructing blanket forts, caring for their menagerie of teens, snakes, lizards, dogs, rabbits, and cats, and ridding their shoes of beach sand. Dane’s work can be seen in Quillkeepers, Gutslut, and Imposter. @punkhippypoet is where you will find them on Instagram and Twitter. Links to all published writing found at DaneLyn.net.
Sheila McMullin is a poet, writing coach, and community herbalist. She is the author of daughterrarium from Cleveland State University Poetry Center and Advisory Board Member of CIACLA Contemporary Irish Arts Center Los Angeles. Through her love for words, herbs, and composting, she crafts handmade paper out of herbal marc, seeds, and recycled materials as an act of devotion to the natural world. She is based in Los Angeles on the traditional lands of the Chumash, Kizh and Tongva Nations. www.sheilamcmullin.com.
Tracie Nichols writes poetry and facilitates group writing experiences from under the wide reach of two old Sycamore trees in southeastern Pennsylvania. She is the co-founder of the women's writing group Embodied Writers, and a Transformative Language Artist dedicated to the potential of language to heal and transform people and communities. Her poems have been published in several anthologies.
Shelby Poulin is an English professor at a private college in Florida. Her works have appeared and are forthcoming in publications such as the Curator, the Other Journal, the Christian Century, Ekstasis Magazine, and The Windhover. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Liberty University.
Jeri Theriault’s poetry collections include Radost, my red and the award-winning In the Museum of Surrender. She is the editor of Wait: Poems from the Pandemic. Her poems and reviews have appeared in many publications, including: The Rumpus, The Texas Review, The Asheville Poetry Review, and Plume. A Fulbright recipient and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Jeri was the third place winner of the 2020 Nazim Hikmet Poetry Prize and winner of the 2019 Maine Literary Award for poetry. She lives in South Portland, Maine. www.jeritheriault.com