October Full Moon Special
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Home of the Brave
Kate Tell |
this is a land that was not made for me.
an earth that has fought me since i was born, at every corner, pushed me to the brink to see if i will even want to stay. if i can stay. i feel the world is sitting on my chest, crushing my ribs and cracking down my spine and when i gasp for air it tells me that this is what i deserve. i walk fast upon the dirt as it breaks, hurriedly and running from what follows, worried that i have been losing myself but never turning ‘round to see for sure. this is a land that was not made for me. i wake up wrong, and wish i hadn’t slept. i stretch wrong, and find my bones hurt more, too. i talk wrong, and wish i had never spoke. i walk wrong, cry wrong, fuck wrong, sing wrong, and i learn wrong, write wrong, i do everything the wrong way and then wonder why everyone’s better. this is a land that was not made for me. to mom and dad and brother: please don’t cry just as i have always cried for you. this is a land that was not made for me. their eyes are black by what has come before. they blink and wonder why they deserve this, why they earned such stinging pain and hatred, the men will crumble to their knees and scream, while women dance until their hearts give out, and children do not even know to cry. those in between will call their life a lie. the world was never meant to end in flame or ash or ocean tides that swallow worlds and homes and the place that we call our own. the world will end in quiet crumbling. this is a land that was not made for me. so i will destroy it myself. i’ll rip dollar bills til the blood it spills reaches my ankles. i will smash my fists against the skyscrapers until they touch the Hudson’s floor. i’ll laugh so loudly and purely over coffee that it will shake evil to its core. i’ll love those who deserve it so much so that i, too, will overshadow the sun. i will dance with everyone watching now. i’ll kiss and cry and eat while being seen, as my brain bursts out from the inside, bulging my eyes, loud pops in my eardrums, cursing me for even having the guts to exist in this way, “how stupid could you be? why would you dare to do this? you are one in billions and yet you have the audacity to believe?” and i will look backwards, facing the mountains i have built out of the hatred i have harbored and the oceans of darkness that i have loved with all of my heart, and i will feel only pity. my heart will no longer yearn for quiet, for silence, for death. it will see the days spent at the peaks and have only regret. it will see the nights spent out at sea and pray for forgiveness. this is a land that was not made for me. so i woke up and lived in one that was. |
September New Moon Special
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Time
T. B. Vittini |
after R. S. Thomas
The physicist in Marseille says: it is an illusion; another in Ontario: it is fundamental and irreversible; the philosopher in Stockholm: every moment disappearing; in Oslo: every moment precious. So, what is this puzzle, time? Now, we say, as it already ceases to be, looking at luminous stars that are black holes, beneath a night sky that is morning in the Azores. I could see bruises beneath raging blisters on her feet, the blue toes curled into themselves like heads of dead flowers. I watched her splutter and drool attempting to answer our uneasy chatter, writhing day and night beneath the sheets, persistent in her plaintive bleating. What point is there in wrestling with this matter, time, deducing this or that, no nearer to the very heart, when it can’t undo her agonizing twilight? |
September Full Moon Special
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Harold Versus the Librarians
Donna Lormand |
Harold refused to move. The air vent in front of the Self-Help section was his at night, and everyone knew it.
“Fine, Harold.” Regina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll get the book in the morning.” Harold had thwarted her once again. “Told you she wouldn’t make it,” I murmured to Val, who forked over a one-dollar bill. She’d made the last-minute online request under her granddaughter’s profile so Regina wouldn’t know, and we’d taken bets on whether Regina would be fast enough. “Closing time,” Regina called, shooing the group of us milling around gently out of the main hall through the double doors and out into the courtyard. “Have a good night,” she called over her shoulder to Harold before turning off all the lights and locking up. “See you all tomorrow,” Regina waved as she headed down the sidewalk. “She almost had him,” Chuck said, waving his a one-dollar bill in my face. I plucked it from his fingers. “Sit down, you old fossil,” I grumbled and pointed to the stone table we sat around most nights after Regina kicked us out. This table had heard much speculation about Harold. Why, for example, had he chosen the Self-Help section? Why not, we questioned, Science Fiction or Mysteries, since these seemed better suited to his situation? Trying to figure out how he would have self-classified if the library still used the Dewey Decimal System had taken up an entire week and we fared no better, even with all those extra categories. In all likelihood, the choice was probably practical. It was a prime spot that was warm in winter and cool in summer, and if one was quiet, as one should be in a library, one could sometimes catch snippets of whispered conversations. Not that Harold, or anyone, spied. I’m just noting the acoustics. Harold was a collector of things. Old things and new things. Plush things. Brittle things. Sticky things and things that smelled. Unloved things. … Sometimes much-loved things. … We seniors respect this. A good collection is a work of art. Harold had been there since before any of us, even Regina, who was here when we were children. She should be retired with us, playing bingo every Tuesday in the library upstairs instead of running it, but it made her happy and who are we to get in her way? Harold was so called because of the weathered and fading “Hi, my name is Harold” sticker plastered to his front, which every now and then someone traced over with permanent marker to ensure it could still be read. No one ever tried to change the name. The use of “he” was also haphazard. When asked if that was his preferred pronoun, Harold declined to respond, as he did for all options, which greatly distressed the youths. Moreover, no one could puzzle out how he’d gotten in. Rumor has it that he was just there one cold winter morning, causing quite a fright for the head librarian at the time. Some said that a fired librarian had wheeled Harold there out of spite, but that didn’t seem plausible, for many reasons, none less than that librarians aren’t known for their physical prowess, that Harold was incredibly heavy, and that librarians are never fired. Some said Harold was requested via interlibrary loan, but there was no record of such a loan request, and librarians are excellent record keepers. Others postulated that it was a prank orchestrated by the youths, but none of them claimed it and those entitled little turds certainly would have. The only person who might have been able to explain was old man Wilson, but he died last spring; and honestly, his memory had gone in the end and no one could decide which of his tales were real and which were of a mind gone feral and unraveled anyway. It didn’t really matter. Harold was here, and though they’d tried every possible way, the librarians could not get him out. Wheeling him straight out the double front doors hadn’t worked; he was an inch too big. They’d removed the doors from the hinges, which should have given them enough space, but when they tried again, Harold was suddenly an extra inch bigger. “Did you measure thrice and check twice?” Chuck had asked, to which a very annoyed Regina had replied “Yes, Chuck,” through her gritted teeth. They’d tried turning him on his side various ways, even diagonal, but he’d stick to the floor like he’d been glued there with construction grade glue, shuddering and belching noxious fumes, until they promised to right him. A removal company, the librarians’ last hope, had also failed—all their tools for cutting and sawing mysteriously ceasing to work when they came within a hundred feet of the library. In the end, Tom, the company owner, had to apologize for his inability to help and had refunded the library’s money. The librarians threw up their hands and shrugged. Harold was there to stay. But, although he gave the librarians something to complain about—and we all know librarians love to complain—they made sure to tell him “good morning” and “good night” every day and they fretted about him on federal holidays when the library was closed. We know they fretted because I once overheard Regina telling another librarian about how much she’d worried. I wasn’t spying. The acoustics carry, which I’ve already noted. When Harold wasn’t near the air vent, he was usually in the lobby, snuggled next to Regina’s desk. She mostly ignored him, but when she needed to get in or out of her desk, she’d have to squish herself to the wall to get around his inconveniently wide perimeter. “Harold!” she’d slam her hands to her hips in momentary exasperation then sigh and smile slightly. It was the smile she used when she talked about Tom. They were dating thanks to the Harold Debacle, and she’d sigh and pat Harold’s side as she squeezed past. On Saturday mornings, Harold could be found occupying a corner of the children’s room on the second floor. Occupied is definitely the right word, given that Harold was way too large and boxy for the corner and given that no one had any idea how he got there, what with his wheels and the stairs and that he was a “trash receptacle” (name calling is rude) way too large for the elevator. The children, however, found him fascinating. They’d stare with their big round eyes and complete lack of manners. On one especially inspired craft day, the children had covered Harold in googly eyes, so now it seemed like he was watching you from all angles, a real Dali meets Mona Lisa kind of vibe (a word the youths recently taught us!). And though Harold sometimes smelled, the children looked forward to sharing story time with him, making sure he got to see any pictures in the books and squealing with delight when Harold gave a little shudder of gratitude, his collection rattling inside. Sometimes Harold even shared something he had collected with them, opening the sliding door on his side and shooting out a treasure like an air cannon–fired t-shirt at a sporting event. The stuffed animals were a favorite. The only other place Harold frequented was the roof, but only on very clear nights, when the stars were bright and the moon full and the city haze lifted enough for the sky to be considered clear. Although this was rare, tonight was such a night, and indeed we could just make out Harold’s wheels dangling over the edge like the feet of some giddy and foolish teenager. “What do you think he’s doing up there?” Val asked, as someone from our group always did when this happened. Theories abounded, but hostile library takeover and anti-capitalist sit-in were the favorites. Some swore they could hear the librarians up there with him, baying wildly at the moon, which would indicate that it was actually Harold AND the librarians not Harold VERSUS the librarians. But this was clearly impossible. Even if they were in cahoots, librarians go to bed at 8pm sharp and it was always well past 8. Me, personally? I think that Harold just every now and then wants to feel the exhilaration of being a little too close to the edge of something and the interconnected insignificance of being under all those stars. The End.
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August New Moon Special
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Bigfoot
Peter Cashorali |
You’re driving in the mountains with the top down, an ornately engraved shotgun on the seat next to you. Bigfoot climbs up onto the road, even in sunlight just a silhouette but his big bristly body unmistakable for anything else. You reach for the shotgun and fire at him. He lurches away. You keep driving. This wasn’t a good idea. You haven’t even wounded him, merely been rude. He’ll travel down the slopes and show up at another bend in the road, resentful now, rejected, whatever his original reason for approaching you colored by displeasure. And he isn’t Bigfoot.
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August Full Moon Special
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There's a Word For That
John Christopher Nelson |
Marty normally took his break at noon, but by 12:23 P.M., he had only just finished the form he'd begun at the start of his shift. Marty spent the next seven minutes with his cursor hovering over the X at the top right corner of the document. If anyone walked by his open office door, he pretended to straighten his already aggressively organized desk.
He was allowed to take his break anytime between noon and 12:30, but could not abide beginning lunch at on odd time. It had to be either the top or the bottom of the hour. Even leaving at a fifteen or forty-five wouldn't work for Marty. Just the thought of it warmed his earlobes and tightened the collar of his shirt. This was among the inborn qualities that Marty could not avoid, but that left him ever restless. There were times when the thought of breaking his routine occurred to him, an appealing but risky daydream. A benign idea, but so different from the life that had become normal in its neutrality. But why normal? That was never what Marty had aimed for, but it seemed cautious, easy, without the opportunity for misfortune’s intrusion. So this was where he found his existence anchored, after years of choosing what he assumed was situationally safe. At 12:26, he weighed what he should eat today. He usually packed something, thinking it cheaper and healthier. Plus, if he spent the entire hour in his office with the door closed, it afforded him more time to do nothing, to interact with nobody. But some mornings were hectic, and found Marty disinterested in the chore of preparing and carrying a lunch. The strip malls and shopping centers near his office park didn’t offer many appealing options. Miscellaneous fast-food chains, all of them currently offering some new chicken sandwich promotion. Grilled, breaded, spicy, but all somehow the same. And all of them with pickles, for some godforsaken reason. It would prove to be another of the passing food trends. There was the Chinese take-out spot that seemed questionable in its quality, no matter the rating proudly Scotch-taped inside the front window. Also, the coffeehouse. He’d purchased a pastry there, more than once. Something light, with berries. Their muffins were always dry. 12:29. Marty decided, without questioning the idea, that he would leave for the rest of the day, instead of returning at 1:30. He'd not make any excuses for himself. None of that quotidian, "I think I ate something bad for lunch," which was an excuse that bothered Marty. If anyone had really eaten something that was off, it would be at least an hour or two before they started feeling ill. Actually, the incubation period for food poisoning can take up to eight hours. "My kids,” fill-in-the-blank, also would not work, because Marty had none of his own. Marty was not married or seeing anyone regularly, so he couldn't even say that Samantha or Rhonda or whoever had just discovered she was with child, let alone going into labor. Even that wouldn’t have worked, because Marty was an openly gay man. Sam or Ronald or whoever also would not be calling Marty to inform him they were carrying his baby. Marty’s job was nothing incredible. Even in a management position, he was not particularly proud of his career, albeit unashamed of it. He never saved lives at work, but he also did not clean toilets or pick up trash with his bare hands. Nothing the matter with those jobs, but Marty was a few tics south of mysophobia. It's a give and take. Decades ago, Marty had started as a runner for the office when he was an undergrad. It was a paid internship and, in time, he applied to a position in the human resources department. Now, secure in his management role, his life was the dullest, yet most pleasant, it had ever been. When people asked, after he'd already told them his job title, what exactly it was that he did, he often found himself grasping for a concrete description of duties. What is it I do? What is it to do? There were documents that appeared on his desk, and often the attached name was one he'd never seen before. Sometimes it was a name with which he’d grown too familiar, annoyed or amused by its reappearance in turn. He wondered how many of the names and faces in this building he could actually match. Mostly employees who were either very good or very bad at their position. Probably somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve percent. Marty reviewed HR documents, and if he felt there were changes to be made, he'd send the document back with suggestions. Sometimes the indicated changes would be made without remark, the document would return to his inbox, and he would forward it to the person who was intended to receive it. There was once or twice that the document came back to him without changes, but with an explanation of why the changes had not been made. The few times this happened, Marty seconded the reasoning and forwarded the document down the line. Marty seldom knew on whose desk these documents would terminally arrive and what would be done with them at that point. But he didn’t care. He’d checked his box in the chain of command. There were days when it slipped his mind what kind of company he worked for. Some longish, legalese-heavy description of an abstract necessity. Marty sometimes thought on this when he wasn't engaged with anything more important. This was often the case. Marty struggled more each day with assigning importance. The concept grew increasingly amorphous for him, with each passing year. That's how capitalism functions. Everyone sells something, even if it’s an intangible something. It’s never any less odd to live in a society where it's possible to exchange money for an idea. Marty put his things in his briefcase and powered down his desktop. It was 12:34, he had already clocked out four minutes earlier, and he would not be returning. He was certain of it. He would make no mention of his spontaneous decision when he left the office. Instead, he locked his door behind him and walked down the hall, issuing smiles or small waves where appropriate. Taylor, a newer intern, effervesced a twee, “Hi, Marty," and his response was deliberately subdued. As they passed each other, heading in opposite directions, she asked where he was off to and, without stopping, he told her he was going to the beach. He wasn't, and she must not have known how to react, because she said nothing else. Maybe she felt indifferent about his destination. Most people who work in offices have learned to be adept at small talk without actually caring in the slightest about the topic of discussion. Taylor might not have even caught the word “beach.” Marty sometimes fantasized about having a more melodramatic life than the one he schlepped through. It was nothing special or exciting, but it was also not dreary or lonely. Marty did have friends outside of work and went on dates as often as he cared too, which wasn’t very. Still, films and books he'd seen and read made him think that it'd be somehow romantic if he left work for good and went home to hang himself or cut his wrists in the bathtub like that guy from the painting or the other guy from the second Godfather. Wait, not romantic. Tragic. Maybe both, depending on his reason, whether he left a note, what the note would tell the people who read it. Who would find it and read it first? Probably his landlord or a police officer. How dull. Wait. Was the guy from that painting in a bathtub? If he went with the tub route, he’d have to pick something appropriate to play on the small radio perched atop the medicine cabinet. But that wouldn’t work either, because whatever he’d been playing would have ended by the time anyone discovered him. It would take a moment before anyone would think to call in a wellness check. And by then, whatever was playing could be embarrassing and out of character. Marty possessed no self-loathing and he'd never considered suicide, but was always fascinated by the way in which popular culture characterized the act as somehow poetic. But also, Marty’s understanding of what it meant for something to be poetic reached about as far as his understanding of irony, which was not a generous length. Vague ideas, not interpreted inaccurately, but also missing the point on an emotional dartboard. For reasons he couldn’t articulate, if he pretended he was walking down the street with the intention of self-harm, it made him feel like so much more of a real human, and it threaded each of his actions with greater depth. Why, this could be the last time Marty would ever take in the sounds and smells of the city as he carried his briefcase along its sidewalks. It didn’t even matter that one of the case’s locks stuck. He wouldn’t need it anymore. But there was nothing especially beautiful about anything he was hearing or smelling. He thought a moment longer and changed his mind. It wasn’t beautiful or tragic. It’s depressing. That was the word, and it had nothing to do with poetry. This conclusion discomposed Marty, and he realized this might also have been because he hadn’t ingested anything but coffee so far today. It made no sense to him, really. He’d leave these musings about suicide alone. Why waste so much thought on something I won’t do? Before outpacing them, he glanced at a mother pushing her daughter in a stroller. The little girl had memories of a meal smeared around her lips and cheeks, fingers viscid where she’d touched the food. She appeared fully content to be this mess of a toddler. This little girl, now out of sight as Marty continued to think about her, held no concept of herself as a person, no grasp of self-identity, and yet was happy to be alive, even if unsuitably presentable for public display. What is it to experience something without knowing what it was? Is happiness more pure before you know how it is supposed to feel? Maybe that’s why children always look like that. Maybe putting a name to a feeling distilled it and assigned it some meaning of elevated significance. Or perhaps something is robbed from an emotion once it's named. Maybe this acted as a sort of limiter on a concept. Where once, childhood possibilities of happiness were boundless, now they were kept within a constraint, like everything else. This must be how children are conditioned to accept society, to surrender to the rigidity of its boundaries. A series of boxes, placed within larger boxes. Matryoshka dolls for acceptable etiquette. He wished he could remember more from his own, now distant, childhood. But then life might seem as though it were lacking something profound and indiscernible. Better to focus on the pleasures that are allowed to adults. Taxes, television reruns, decorating one’s desk at the office, dispiriting dates, underwhelming intimacy, wine—but only ever red—reading best sellers, abandoning best sellers, purchasing new patio chairs, washing the chair cushions again because they still smell like The Home Depot, refilling ice trays, waiting on hold with the electric company, completing crosswords, not fully grasping Wordle—a few years prior, Sudoku had also proven elusive—trying to remember how to change a tire, trying something different at the coffeehouse, wishing to have ordered the usual instead, picking up the best seller again and subsequently regretting it again, commiserating with friends about the stark difference between the cost of movie tickets now and thirty years ago, flipping the calendar to a new month, refilling the Brita pitcher but slouching on replacing the filter, adding paper towels to the grocery list, forgetting the grocery list before heading to the store, farmers’ markets, neglecting to use fresh produce before it wilts, assessing the smell of milk after its best-by date, scooping the cat box, adjusting the temperature on the water heater, starting to watch the evening news, but turning it off less than five minutes later, because no matter what it is, it’s always only more of the same, never knowing which knife to use for which cheese at a dinner party, addressing cards for the holidays and realizing the postage stamps have run out, wishing there was enough room on the patio to grow something to sell at a farmers’ market, thinking about the beach, but not actually visiting the ocean. Nothing so bad about all of that. Marty was still deciding what he should do. It’s not often that a person takes their whole day off without telling anyone. Marty would be a fool to waste it. He paused at a bus stop and folded his cardigan as neatly as possible so he could stuff it inside his briefcase. The day was already much warmer than it had been on his way to work. Soon enough, it would be 1:30, and Marty realized he might be hearing from work shortly after that. He supposed they’d be concerned or bothered. In either case, he decided to let them feel however it was they were going to feel and that he would rather he not have to hear about it. He silenced his phone and locked it in his briefcase, where he wouldn’t misplace it. Maybe it will get stuck in there. Maybe Taylor had been listening when he told her he was going to the beach and, perhaps when it was clear he was not coming back, she would tell their coworkers what he had said. She seemed too kind and private to go out of her way to tell on him, but she also struck Marty as honest. He hoped that they would all silently congratulate him, as he was now congratulating himself. Marty deserved a day off at the beach, even if this was a fictional version of what he was going to do with his afternoon. A fictional day at a fictional beach, he smiled. Marty did not look at the route number on the front of the bus, and did not speak to the bus driver. He boarded, paid his fare, and took a seat at the rear of the vehicle, with his worn briefcase on his lap. Not long after the bus pulled away from the curb, it passed the mother with the stroller. Marty was again amused by the slovenly, carefree child, also being chauffeured to a destination she did not know or care about. |
June Full Moon Special
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Heart
Liam Johnson |
The heart beats steady in its hollow chest,
A pulse that quickens with each passing breath. It whispers secrets in a rhythmic thrum, A silent drum that drums beneath the skin. It pushes blood through silent, unseen halls, A force that claims the space within the ribs. No pause, no mercy in its steady march, It claims its territory with every beat. The ache can grow from quiet, subtle shifts, A tightening grip that chills the marrow deep. Each throb a subtle warning, a reminder, That life can end in darkness, silent sleep. The heart does not discern the line of life, It simply moves, relentless, unafraid. In every thump, a silent threat remains, A quiet echo of what it can become. |
May New Moon Special
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Held
Huina Zheng |
The usually bustling brick factory had quieted on the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, as the workers left for their Spring Festival break. Ling didn’t care how they planned to prepare for or spend the holiday. Six days weren’t enough to return all the way to Sichuan, and most of the factory’s forty-some married men had left their wives and children back home. The burden of holiday preparations belonged to the women. She felt no envy as the men napped, played cards, or wandered the nearby markets. She had long grown used to it—men resting during holidays while women rushed about, holding everything together.
Under the warm sun, Ling crouched by the courtyard well, scrubbing curtains. The sunlight burned faintly on her back. She wanted to finish while the weather was good, so the pre-festival cleaning could be wrapped up. After that, she still had to pick up the last of the holiday groceries, then snip the cured sausages into pieces and bind them with red thread. “Get on your knees!” Yao’s roar tore through the air, laced with Ming’s pleading and muffled sobs. Ling’s heart jolted. Dread surged through her. She stumbled inside. Ming was kneeling on the bare concrete floor, his small body trembling. At eight years old, his knees were no match for the cold, hard surface. Yao’s business partner, Sheng, sat at the tea table. When Ling entered, he looked over, startled and unsure what to do. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Your son stole money!” Yao’s voice was low and hard, each word ground out between clenched teeth. “This boy—Zhang Yao’s son—is a thief. I’m working day and night—no time to discipline him—and this is what he becomes? No upbringing. No respect. What will people think if they hear?” “There must be a mistake. Ming wouldn’t do that.” Ling stepped closer to her son. She reached out, then stopped, afraid of provoking Yao. Lowering her voice, she said, “Ming, tell Mama. What happened?” “Mama, I...” Ming’s voice shook. “I... I’ll never do it again... I promise...” “He’s eight years old. It’s shameful... having him kneel like this...” Ling hated the pleading in her voice, but she only wanted it all to stop. Her eyes flicked to Sheng, silently asking for help. Sheng set down his gongfu teacup, and with an almost imperceptible nod, stood up and walked over. “Yao, he’s still a child. There’s time to teach him. It’s almost Chinese New Year.” He gently helped Ming up. “Go on back to your room,” he said. Ming glanced at Yao, fear in his eyes. His hands clutched the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling. Ling’s heart clenched. She longed to go over and hold him, but she was afraid Yao would explode again. All she could do was watch as Ming shuffled toward his room, each step tentative. He touched the doorknob so lightly it was as if he feared making a sound. He pushed the door open and went inside. When it closed behind him, Ling thought she could hear him sobbing. “This is what happens when you spoil him and shield him,” Yao shouted, his voice echoing through the courtyard. “He ends up stealing! I work myself to the bone at the brick factory. I’d give my life for this family! And what do you do? You pamper him all day long. Indulgence ruins a child—haven’t you heard that? And still you keep coddling him!” More workers gathered outside. They craned their necks, peering into the house, whispering in Sichuanese. It was close enough to Mandarin that Ling could understand. Some said she was pitiful—that no woman should be humiliated like this in front of so many. Others said Yao was right to scold his wife—what was wrong with that? Ling lowered her head until her chin nearly touched her chest. She knew better than to talk back, especially in front of others. Yao cared more about face than anything. Any word from her would only stoke the fire. “I, Zhang Yao, have never stolen, never robbed anyone, no matter how poor I’ve been. I’ve always walked the straight path. And now look what I’ve raised—a son with sticky fingers. What a fine mother you are. Just look at the boy you’ve brought up.” Her mind detached from her body, as if floating above the scene, watching this farce unfold with cold indifference. She remembered praying over and over when she was pregnant with Ming, begging the heavens to show mercy and give her a son. She remembered carrying him on her back up into the hills to gather firewood. Every time she bent to chop a branch and straightened up, his little head would bump the back of hers. She always worried—had he gotten hurt? “You call that parenting? Teaching a child isn’t hard. If he doesn’t listen, you beat him. And if he still doesn’t listen, you beat him harder. That’s how you raise a child. But you—you’re soft. You can’t bear to see him cry. That’s why he’s turned out like this.” The crowd outside grew larger. The whispers swelled. Ling remembered when Ming had just learned to walk. He had pointed to the cupboard where she hid fruit candies, then to his mouth. She had taken out a candy, handed it to him, and shaken her head, saying, “That was the last one. All gone.” Ming had smiled and taken the candy, and never pointed at the cupboard again. He’d always been such a gentle, thoughtful child. Yao was still raging, his voice sharp, laced with contempt. His angry snorts, his scornful shaking of the head—he hurled words at her like stones, letting his fury tear through the room, as if burning away her “failings” would cleanse him. He needed this moment, this stage, to show everyone what a strict and righteous father he was—that the boy’s failure wasn’t his fault, but hers: the mother who couldn’t stop doting. Outside, the chatter faded into a hum, background noise. Ling’s world fell silent, everything drowned out but Yao’s voice, still ringing in her ears. It had always been like this—before, now, and likely always. No one had ever spoken for her, helped her, stood beside her. She was always alone, bearing every accusation in silence. Eventually, Yao’s voice quieted and stopped. The crowd began to disperse. The noise retreated into the distance. Ling didn’t move. She didn’t know how much time had passed—only that it felt endless. Her legs ached, knees bent, and the soreness had crept from her neck into her shoulders. “It’s late. You should get dinner started.” Yao’s voice came again. Ling kept her head down. Her thoughts were like a wasteland after a storm—stripped bare, nothing left to grasp. Something inside her had cracked, soundlessly. She lifted her foot and stepped toward the door. She didn’t know where she was going. No—that wasn’t true. There was only one place in her mind: the pond behind the house. She felt Yao’s grip clamp onto her arm—tight as an iron vise, locking her in place. She tried to pull away, but his strength overwhelmed hers. Her efforts were useless, like an ant trying to shake a tree. She wanted to walk out, but he dragged her back toward the bedroom. She felt like a weightless rag doll, hauled along until he pushed her down beside the bed. “Sheng will make dinner. You rest here.” Without a glance back, Yao walked out and shut the door behind him. Ling collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the mosquito net—white mesh squares, one after another, like an endless cage. She thought of ten years ago, when she followed Yao out of the mountain-ringed village. The hills were covered in blooming rhododendrons. In a hollow near Shenzhen, they cleared brush and built a mud-brick hut with their own hands. Winter wind slipped through the cracks in the walls. They lay under a stiff cotton quilt, shivering. “Just a few more years,” he said through chattering teeth. “I’ll build you a house that keeps the wind out.” She had believed him. For that promise, she worked through postpartum pain, bent over fields when she should’ve been resting. She survived on salted vegetables and plain porridge during the early days of the brick factory. Now, they had a solid brick house. Yao had become the respected Boss Zhang. But her life felt more like that old quilt—decent on the outside, cold to the bone. She was tired. Too tired to fight anymore. All it would take was a short walk to the pond behind the house. One small step, and it would all be over. That simple. Time dripped like wax, thick and slow. Outside, the light dimmed. She lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if even her breath had been drained. Only when the room was swallowed by darkness did she feel herself return—like surfacing from a long, suffocating submersion. The house was silent. She was alone. Yao wasn’t there. She sat up and stepped barefoot onto the cold tile floor. Quietly, she walked to the door. The turn of the knob sounded like a sigh. The light in the living room was still on. In its harsh glow, Yao sat slouched on a stool by the front door, one leg stretched across the doorway, the other braced against the frame—forming a quiet barricade. His head drooped, arms folded across his chest. He looked asleep. Her heart sank. If she wanted to leave, she’d have to step over his leg. And he would wake. He knew. He knew what she was thinking, where she might go. So he sat there, using the only thing left to him—his body—to block her way. He wouldn’t apologize. Wouldn’t soften. But this was how he told her: You’re not allowed to leave. Was she supposed to be moved by this? Why? Why should he think this was enough? That one door, one leg, could undo all the pain she’d swallowed over the years? She clenched her jaw, turned back, and threw herself onto the bed. That night, she drifted in and out of restless sleep, trapped in a haze of heavy, formless dreams. It wasn’t until first light crept through the windows and the voices of early workers echoed in the courtyard that the mattress beside her finally dipped. Yao was back. He smelled faintly of cigarettes. Without a word, he lay down beside her. And just like that, everything returned to where it had started. She turned toward the wall and shut her eyes. Just one more day, she told herself. Today, Ming wants egg noodles. She couldn’t leave. At least… not yet. |
May Full Moon Special
|
We are the motherline
Alison Brechtel |
A circle of women surrounds me.
That circle blesses me. And roots me on from afar. They are the watchers. I am the doer. They give me life. And place their hands on my belly. I can see them in Emmy’s big brown eyes, when she smiles and they crinkle. In her laugh that travels up and down and down and up. They are rooting her on. They place their hands in the air, aiming her to walk in their direction. They are clapping when she claps. I can see my gram behind my mom. She’s placing my hand on her shoulder. Just as my mom places a hand on mine. I can see the line I can see the line so clearly Of my grandmother, my mom, myself, and Emmy. We are the evolution. Evolution of the beauty. And evolution of the mess. Evolution of the chaos in the world and us. Together, we are one We are the motherline. |
April New Moon Special
|
Goddess Ambrosial
Kaylyn Dunn |
The night would be lost
Without her ever present radiance The bright glow of her hair Could not lead the stars The pale porcelain of her skin Could not light the dark She goes by many names But to each she does not answer Instead she sits confined to the clouds And hidden behind the wind |
March New Moon Special
|
Care
Avery Walker |
Hearts beat loud, yet hollow,
In the midst of the masquerade. I watch the dance, the vibrant swirl, But find no warmth in any twirl. The whispers of worry, the cries of despair, Yet here I sit, with a heart made of stone, “Do you not care?” they question with frowns, As I wander through their ups and downs. Compassion’s a burden, a weight to be burned. For in caring, there’s a chaos of pain and disdain. So let them weep over their human affair, For I’ve learned that it’s easier to simply not care. |
March Full Moon Special
|
Choices
Morgan |
In shadows cast by whispered fears,
Where echoes of despair draw near, A tale unfolds, a complex weave, Of lives entwined, of hearts that grieve. In chambers dim, where choices loom, A silence thick as heavy gloom, The pen shall dance on knife’s edge fine, In fractured prose, and verse divine. A criminal act, or necessity’s plight? In blood-stained corridors, wrong meets right. A mother's heart, a child’s first breath, In the balance hangs, the weight of death. A genre spilled from pages torn, In anguish born, in sorrow worn, For every choice, the echoes ring, Of love, of loss, the pain they bring. In quiet streets where shadows creep, A mother’s vigil, her secrets keep. With trembling hands and haunted eyes, She weighs her truth against the lies. The clinic doors, so stark and cold, A sanctuary of stories untold, Where lives converge like rivers meet, In this murky realm of bitter defeat. Fiction bleeds into the real, The heart’s raw wound, the soul’s appeal, A tapestry of voices clash, In prose that cuts, in stanzas thrash. The poet’s pen, a dagger drawn, To pierce the veil of right and wrong, In every stanza, a heartbeat’s thrum, A symphony of grief, where shadows hum. The guilt that festers, the shame that binds, In every choice, the past unwinds, A mother’s lament, a child’s lost dream, In the murky depths, a silent scream. Yet here lies beauty in the pain, In every tear, a drop of rain, A genre bending, a truth laid bare, In the space between despair and care. Each voice a thread in this tangled skein, Of love and loss, of joy and pain, Unsettled hearts, intrigued by the fire, Of stories born from the depths of desire. Let not the labels confine our thought, For in every battle, a lesson is wrought, A blend of genres, a fusion of styles, To illustrate the journey, to traverse the miles. For art is not a single lane, But a winding road through joy and pain, Where every heart can find its song, In the chaos of right and wrong. So call forth the poets, the dreamers, the bold, To speak of the stories that need to be told, Of choices made in the dark of night, And the flickering flame of a fading light. In this tapestry woven with care, Let’s embrace the truth, the beauty laid bare, For literature’s heart, in its wildest flight, Resists easy categorization, seeks the light. In blending the genres, the styles, the voice, We find our humanity, we make our choice, To evoke an emotion, a stirring response, In the depths of our being, let the darkness ensconce. For in every life, a story resides, In the choices we make, in the love that abides, And through the complex, the tangled, the raw, We embrace the tumult, the beauty, the flaw. So let us gather, the voices anew, With courage to speak, to question, to view, The criminal nature of choices profound, In literature's arms, let true compassion be found |
February New Moon Special
|
Boy
C.D. Girard |
I.
Boy oh, beautiful boy a loose curl draped delicately out of place positioned by Michelangelo himself purposely amiss uniting Nashira and Algedi. Your overgrown ivy threatens the peacocks who suffice to hide as the northern lights flicker through the long grass dancing in an imaginary wind. The vine has yet to reach toothbrush painted cheeks with rose burns masking a delicate sensuality confident metrosexuality. Shy David bloom for me delicate porcelain soften your gaze and forceful smile let me admire you, In The Cellar Window through film daydreams of encounters vulnerable empathetic power. Is it love or pain that spills on concrete or shoulders? Waves threatening a delicate ecosystem as people watch on in black and white technicolour. II. Boy tell your sister talent runs deep in the family; water traveling through fissures of ancestry. Thank your mother for sowing seeds of ambition; vines dancing towards sunbeams. Worship your grandmother’s spirit; sing life into perfection and courage. How does it feel to be that family? Talent lost in my blue waves of wisdom your body is a monologue of and in itself demanding attention as it progresses across stage an alluring frenchness freshness. Dispatched vulnerability causes shakespearean admiration. Future glimmers in your eyes visions of greatness reflects in shallow voided pupil. Take a second to talk to your younger self. Take a minute to listen to your older self. Take an hour to understand your current self. And breath. Don’t annul yourself. III. Boy I want to yell your name hello, hello, hello. Can you hear me? Do you recognize my voice? Screaming echoes against empty walls loud ricochets of my heart reaching out to you. Whisper names into telephones cords tied tightly round and round around pacing feet. Hello, hello, hello, resonating murmurs in crowded rooms out of place. Don’t run off replacing me like hand-me-down china. Remind me again that happy endings are dull and perfectly flawed. Hello, hello, hello. Lay me down next to you and gently stroke my hair one and two and lie to me about your feelings. Look me in the eyes with an obsidian gaze a small sadness written in your eyes. A tilt of your head a furrow of your brow; hold me longer just one more night in this cold embrace of jealousy |
February Full Moon Special
|
Bone Broth
Jamie Cubper |
In the dim light of the kitchen,
a pot simmers, amber glistening, the scent of thyme and garlic, an embrace that swells, like a heartbeat, tender, the gentle crackle of skin, the soft surrender of flesh, the rhythm of a ladle, stirring warmth into the marrow. Outside, shadows stretch and twist, the sound of splintering wood, a snap, a crack, the hollow echo of brittle bones, the air thick with something bitter, a different kind of heat, one that scalds, that breaks, an uninvited shiver slithering down the spine. I pour the broth into bowls, golden nectar, soul’s elixir, each spoonful a promise, each sip a soft reminder, of safety wrapped in savory, the way love rises in layers, like the steam that curls, a hand on a shoulder, the warmth of a shared moment. Yet in the corners, the knife glints, sharp and knowing, a tool for carving both comfort and chaos, the duality of creation, where tenderness meets terror, a surgeon’s precision, or a fist that knows no mercy, both wielding the power to nourish or to shatter. I watch the chicken boil, skin pulling away, as if shedding secrets, the broth deepens, darkens, infused with the whispers of bones, the soft surrender of old wounds, mending and breaking, the fragile dance between what heals and what harms. |
January Full Moon Special
|
Part Two: The Echoing Void
Wren Ferris |
In the echoing void of night,
a voice rises, fragmented yet whole, piercing the stillness with questions, that twist like vines around the consciousness, seeking answers in the spaces between, where silence holds its breath, and the weight of existence presses down, heavy as a stone, yet light as a feather caught in the wind. Here lies the absurdity of humanity, the dance of power, where the puppet strings tangle in a knot, and the marionette sways, caught between the desires of the crowd, and the longing for liberation, a paradox that reverberates, through the halls of history, echoing the cries of those forgotten. The surreal creeps in, like shadows in the twilight, twisting the mundane into the extraordinary, a child’s drawing of a sun with eyes, a reminder that reality is but a canvas, an interpretation painted with the brush of perception, where the bizarre collides with the familiar, and laughter mingles with tears, in the delicate dance of existence. We walk these thin lines, between what is known and what is feared, the trauma etched in the fabric of our beings, the resilience that sprouts, in the cracks of our armor, each scar a testament, to battles fought in silence, each wound a story waiting to unfold, in the embrace of vulnerability, where the heart can be both shield and sword. So we gather, in this space of discomfort, where the unsettling becomes the norm, and the narratives intertwine, each voice a note in a symphony of chaos, resonating with authenticity, inviting us to listen, to engage with the stories that challenge, that provoke, that linger long after the last word is spoken, echoing in the chambers of our minds, a call to embrace the complexity, of what it means to be human, to exist in the margins, to dance in the light and the dark, finding beauty in the struggle, and truth in the surreal. |
December New Moon Special
|
Part One: The Fractured Mirror
Wren Ferris |
In the hush of a crowded room,
voices intertwine, a tapestry of breaths, each whisper a thread, fraying at the edges, as laughter erupts, sharp and brittle, like glass shattering under the weight of unspoken truths. They gather, a kaleidoscope of faces, their eyes reflecting histories, narratives woven in darkness and light, each smile a mask, a fragile facade, concealing the tremors beneath. The clock ticks, a relentless reminder, of moments slipping through fingers, and the silence that follows each joke, rests heavy, a weight too familiar, the punchline hanging in the air, its absurdity lingers, a ghost, haunting the corners of recognition, where identity blurs, and power plays hide-and-seek, in the glances exchanged, the unyielding grip of expectation. Outside, the world spins, oblivious, a carousel of routine, while inside, the surreal blooms, a garden of contradictions, where trauma whispers in the dark, and resilience rises like a phoenix, not from the ashes, but from the jagged fragments, of what has been broken, reconstructed in the quiet moments, when vulnerability becomes an offering, a raw, bleeding truth laid bare. Here, in the crevices of laughter, the unsettling dance of reality and fiction, the narrative weaves its way through, a tapestry of the unexamined, where discomfort resides, and the heart beats in tandem with fear, as the mirror reflects not just faces, but the shadows lurking behind, the stories untold, the lives lived in the margins, each one a universe unto itself. |
December Full Moon Special
|
Wait Till The Clouds Roll By
Damien Kelly |
“Aye, yeah, I know your face from town,” Essie says to Jennie when they were introduced to one another that day up in Deerpark Day Care Centre. Of course she did. Sure, weren’t they reared together. Even though it must have been seventy or so years since them days, they hadn’t changed that much, had they. The two of them were like twin sisters when they were young ones, with their matching grey pinafores and their little black bobs. They went to the same school together, where Essie - whose family were the more well off - used to share her bread and jam sandwiches with Jennie. Now she was letting on that she didn’t know or remember her little friend.
Jennie’s mother had run off to somewhere in England when the children were only young. She was a tall and glamorous lady, like a model, and her husband - a bag egg if ever there was - used to get quare jealous with a few drinks in him and would go home and kick her into the legs until she was left black and blue. So poor Jennie, who must have been only eleven or twelve at the time, ended up rearing the three younger ones. In the finish up, anyway, Jennie was eventually let court one of the Halloran chaps who worked up in the sugar factory; they got married in time and then, after all that, she went on to rear another family when she had nine children of her own. Essie had it different, as such. She finished all of her schooling up to the inter cert and when she was eighteen or so her father got her involved with an older, widower friend of his who was a big noise down in Simmond’s seed merchants. It wasn’t long after that that they were married and, before it was almost too late for Essie, she went on to have a child of her own - a little boy. Straight away, it looked like Essie had an issue with her little friend when they met again after all the years. There seemed to be a look on her face that said - Who does she think she is? - as she watched Jennie mix with the others. You see, Jennie was so funny, and quick as a flash, her mind was still like a ricochet. She loved having the craic and everybody loved that warm way she had about her, always joking and telling stories - like the one about the American man who came over to Ireland and bought Saint Patrick’s skull. She had great sport with Marek, a young foreign chap who was doing a bit of volunteering at the Centre; they just clicked with one another. “I bet you that eejit thinks that that fella fancies her,” Essie was heard saying one day when she saw they were laughing and joking together. Jennie got into painting on account of young Marek, and he got a hold of some brushes and things for her to use. She had a knack for it even though her poor auld fingers were crippled with arthritis. She said she was sorry she hadn’t picked it up years ago. She was over the moon, though, when she finished her first picture; it was of six big white and yellow marguerites planted in a kind of a watering can. “You are a natural at this, Jen,” Marek said to her one day as he was looking for a spot to hang it. This set Essie off for some reason. She went for Jennie bald headed another time and cornered her saying something like: “You think you’re it, don't you? With your black ringlets. How were you able to keep your hair black, and I wasn’t? Look at you…you’re hardly able to walk anymore, anyway,” while pointing her wizened fist towards Jennie’s face. Mind you, Jennie would have been well able for Essie’s brazenness in times past, before her hips were done, but all she could do was sit stuck to her chair with the fright of it. You could see Essie watching on as some of Jennie’s daughters and sons, even some of her grandchildren at times, came to collect her, while she was left by her only son to be carried around in the little minibus belonging to the centre. Jennie soon started to go missing from the Centre though. Essie must have thought she had frightened her off. There was a kind of an attitude of - I sorted her out - coming off of her whenever Jennie was mentioned around the place. Jennie was missing from the Centre more and more. It started to feel like the good was gone out of it, everyone was of the same opinion. Jennie’s visits came to a complete stop. Word got around that she had been in hospital. Cancer. She wasn’t given much more time. “Oh, poor auld Jennie,” Essie said, in that sweet mouthed way of hers. “And do you know,” says she, “that we went to school with one another, you know? We were great pals, altogether. But eighty-nine, you know; it’s a great age.” Then one day word came that Jennie had passed away. We were no strangers to this type of news at the Centre, but there was a terrible sadness hanging around the place that time. There was a great turn out for her funeral. Jennie was well known and well liked around the town. Her family came to it from all over: England, Australia, you name it. The little ones, who must have been great-grandchildren or even great-great-grandchildren, were a credit to Jennie as they brought some of her little mementos up to the altar: her tapes and her paint brushes and things - but no sign of her lovely painting. Essie was watching all the sad faces in the church as a Silvermint spun round her mouth in vexation. She had her eyes on a framed photo on top of Jennie’s coffin in front of the altar; it was taken at the centre months back, where Jennie smiled with her new pals, wearing the Easter bonnets that we had made. Joe Dolan was played as the coffin was carried out of the church. Wait Till The Clouds Roll By; it was Jennie’s song. She used to hum it to herself at the Centre when she was painting. How I shall miss you, my darling. D’ya know, hearing something like that at a funeral, something that you know means something special to that person, can bring out this terrible feeling of sadness in you; it can really bring a tear to your eye. It was no different for Essie. Up at the cemetery mass the crowd stood around the grave - quiet and respectful. Something came over Essie. She asked the priest if she could say something. Nobody knew where to look when she began to cry and bawl into the microphone, “It’s not fair, God, it’s not fair…it wasn’t her time to go. Take me…I want to go.” And God forgive me for saying it but there wasn’t a single tear. When she had had her say the priest put an arm around her as if to comfort her, as such, and took the microphone out of her hand. *
Declan called around to Es’s house for a visit a few weeks later. It was only the second person who visited her since the funeral. He’d heard about what had happened at the graveyard; he must have been a tad concerned about the carry on of his poor mammy.
“Did you not bring little Aaron over to see his granny,” Essie says to him. “Little Aaron is down in Limerick, now sure,” says Declan. “Oh lovely, what has him over there?” shashee. “Little Aaron is a twenty-year-old man now, mam. He’s been in college there the last two years.” “Oh, that’s great to hear,” says Essie, “I must give him a little something for his digs; I’ve got something upstairs for him.” Up she went, up the stairs as quick as her little legs could manage in those auld slippers of hers. Declan was seemingly stuck for time - it always seemed to be a short visit with him, he always had someplace else to be. He let a roar up to her. “What is it you’re rooting around for up there?” he asked her. “Just something I did at the centre,” shashee back to him as she started to make her way back down the stairs, as careful as anything. “You can tell him his granny,” were the last words Essie ever said because what came after was an unmerciful scream out of her followed by five loud bangs. Then there was nothing but silence. Her son, God bless him, ran out into the hallway to her, only to be met with the sight of his poor mother’s body lying there at the foot of the stairs; and lying on top of it, all the life gone out of her, was the framed painting of the six white daisies. |
2nd November New Moon Special
|
Echoes in the Attic
Elara N. Veil |
In the attic of whispers, where shadows confide, / Lies a trove of reflections, where bright colors slide, / Between lines of the ordinary, the strange will collide, / And the echoes of heartbeats will waltz untried.
A clock in the corner ticks softly in tongues, / While the weight of the world on a spider's thread hangs. / Each tick is a venture, each tock a rebuke, / From the marionette puppets with delirious gags. The chorus of laughter, a thin veil of fright, / Bubbling up under ribs in the dim of the night. / With a flippant bravado, the gallows tease speech, / In a banquet of truths that the sane cannot reach. Beneath the veneer of our well-shined delight, / There swirl hidden sentiments, loathed yet polite. / So we lie, and we chuckle, and sip bitter wine, / As the narratives lurk where our wild thoughts entwine. What is the taste of a wound, once it’s dressed? / Is grief merely bitter, or sweetness expressed? / Like children who fumble, for the light they can find, / We dig through the ashes, our souls intertwined. In a melody fractured, the ballad of fate, / Where the hero's resilience meets echoes of hate, / Identity dances on the razor’s sharp edge, / Under starlit confessions, we balance on ledge. Half-dreams kaleidoscope through the rooms we avow, / As curtains unfurl with a whisper, a vow. / In the scrum of romance and chaos they twine, / Resilience a specter, with specters aligned. The stones we throw scatter in ripples untraced, / Imprisoned in glamor, our lives are misplaced. / Yet within the absurdity, flickers of light, / Illuminate shadows that shift in the night. We’re an orchestra tuning, with strings made of sorrow, / Performing the symphony of discords tomorrow. / In glimpses of darkness, raw truths take their stance, / While the murmur of chaos invites us to dance. For here in this space, where the real and surreal / Collide with their whispers, our hearts learn to feel. / Let’s gather the fragments, let our stories merge, / In the corner where laughter and anguish converge. So we wander through hallways of haunting allure, / Where discomfort breeds courage, our minds drift and soar. / Embracing what lingers, unmasked and unshy, / In the theater of silence, our spirits will fly. |
November Full Moon Special
|
Kidney Beans
Pauline Aksay |
My sister had a rare disease
From drinking jugs of anti-freeze She needed a brand-new kidney But waitlists were too long, you see So I checked if mine matched her needs Results came back positively I went through with the surgery And gave her one of my kidneys A new scar symbolized my deed My sister was now fully free To live life happily, healthy But late that night, at half-past three I saw her take Mom's card, Dad's keys Drive to gas station #63 Buy more jugs for her to eat Then come back home and fall asleep She woke up at ’round 12:30 To Mom, Dad washing her cups clean Paying for the purchased ’freeze Their smiles full of anxiety Yet still, she drank more anti-freeze My parents watching her each week Becoming a more yellow-green Her breaths were laboured, shallow, weak And my sister, with her disease From drinking jugs of anti-freeze Needed another new kidney Only after a couple weeks But I couldn't spare my kidney And we were out of family I had to find some different means To get her what she’d truly need… The waitlist was a good Plan “B” But a web search, Plan “A’d” reveal Markets where people sold “fresh meat” With poor judgement, I'd gone to see One, was shown things that made me squeam My head froze as my spirit screamed The “fresh meat” was simply “not clean” I ran as fast as I could flee Tripped, fell in a press factory Dazed, I fashioned ads quickly “Got a spare kidney? Then call me” Was kicked once complaints were received And landed in a French piscine Kidney shaped, it taunted me Because I hoped its whirlpool’d be An antidote to a sick body It spun, flung me to an alley I landed by trashed kidney beans they howled, said “You'll never succeed!” But by this time, my rage broke free I threw them in the French piscine As the whirlpool spun rapidly A beanstalk grew so suddenly With kidneys sprouting from its leaves At last, the right size, finally!
I found my sister’s new kidney Climbing up the stems of beans Kidneys rained down on the streets… I woke up from the surgery Felt lighter than I'd ever been Suddenly, it'd dawned on me What happened ’fore I went to sleep My sister and her rare disease From drinking all that anti-freeze Had needed two brand-new kidneys And I’d given mine both for free So now she can do what she pleases And drink all of her anti-freeze To take my parents’ hope, money And live life happily, healthy. |
September Full Moon Special
|
I Speak for the Moon
JD Jentri |
I speak for the moon
as luminescent beams whisper on desert floors leafy treetops and emerald grass on golden savannahs and crystalline seas I speak for the moon my older sister and demure mother the pregnant wife and lonely lover with dimpled face of distant splendor I speak for the moon my secret-keeper and discreet companion solitary and proud gracing the night sky my twin above as I dance below I speak for the moon |