Elusive

artwork: ralph murre

Elusive

by Scott Thomas Outlar

We’re all looking

for something better

than what we are;

something deeper

than what we’ve felt;

something stronger

than what we’ve sensed;

something more honest

than what we’ve

been telling ourselves;

something more steady;

something more calm;

something more real

than what we’ve experienced;

something that never

winds up hurting us

in the end;

something sweet

that isn’t addictive;

something alive

that doesn’t die on us;

something powerful

that never loses its grace;

something that never runs dry;

something that never talks back;

something that comforts us

when we are hurt;

something that understands

the existential pain;

something that does not lack

in the moments

when we need it most;

something that is brave

when we are full of fear;

something that fits the bill;

something that naturally

smiles for the camera

without having to fake the cheese;

something rich without pretension;

something high without a kite.

~ first published in Dissident Voice

when your grandmother . . .

artwork: ralph murre

by Marty McConnell ~

when your grandmother mistakes your girlfriend for a man,

do not rise up over the dinner table
like a sequin tornado

or a burning flag. it is Christmas.
though the forks

curl their tines into tiny silver fists
and the frost-

rimmed windows blink in embarrassment,
focus on your lover

as she clears her throat, extra low, passes the salt
to your grandmother

who thanks the young man with the strange
haircut and delicate

hands. this is no time for declarations and no one’s
seemed to notice

though the milk’s gone solid in the pitcher
and your father

is suddenly fascinated by the unmoving air
in the other room.

your mouths do not move, except
to chew. this is family,

this is holiday, there are no affairs, no
addictions, your family

crest reads in elaborate embroidery
the less said,

the better. though your father did offer once
to pay for your therapy

back when no one you knew was in therapy
and there was no way

you were going to talk to a stranger about things
you’d never say

to your mother, even drunk, even on Easter. so
to say something now

about what might be a mistake, or just the easiest way
to explain a mohawk

would be bringing sand to the bank. unprofitable
and a little bit

insane. you study your lover’s chin. the tweezers wince
under the sink.

she could be a boy, you think. apocalyptic Christian
emails aside,

maybe your grandmother is progressive. astute
in her own

Southern, incidental way. your voice offering her
the butter is a punk band

playing an abortion clinic. all feedback
and nobody wants you.

she’s your grandmother. she’s nearly 100.
your uncle

took thirty years to get sober. your grandfather died
still owning the manual

to every piece of machinery he’d ever owned.
you still

don’t know how to make any kind of pie.
there are no

family recipes. in the far corner of your liver

your other grandmother

looks up from her patient sectioning

of a grapefruit,

offers you a chunk of your own atrophied

tongue, trembling

at the edge of her serrated spoon.

~ first published in the Beloit Poetry Journal

Christmas Night with Ukelele

artwork: ralph murre

Christmas Night with Ukulele

by John Sierpinski

I am twelve, sitting in a chair in a new striped

polo shirt, and cuffed, corduroy pants.  My

hair is slicked with Vaseline and water, shaped

and parted like Roy Rogers’.  When I smile,

there is a gap between my front teeth.  The new

transistor radio I unwrapped earlier crackles,

“Chestnuts  roasting…”  Tinny.  The radio

is the size of a brick.  Uncle Ted appears

at the top of the basement stairs and says

“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christ…”  He stumbles,

swallowed into the great white, flocked tree.

The color coordinated ornaments and spotlight

shatter.  Crunch.  Are pulverized.  At the end

a remote sick, little bell tinkles.  Aunt Junie,

Ted’s wife, curses like some deranged drill

instructor.  Ted lies on the thick shag, fine

shards of red and green glass sprinkled in

his graying hair.  He attempts to get up —

a slow motion roll, a shuffle of feet.  “I’m

sorry,” he drones, with a faint smile.  Aunt

Hilda comes to on the sofa, looks at Ted,

and declares, “Let’s all take our clothes off!”

I sneak a glance up her pleated skirt.  My

mother catches me (a scolding look).  I feel

more and more uneasy, and  steal down

the stairs to the knotty pine, rec. room bar. 

My father is singing, “All is calm…” Uncle

Sy strums four strings, the little woman- 

shaped body of the ukulele.  I ask, “Can we

go now, Dad?”  He continues to sing: shot

glass in one hand,  lips slack, a lopsided oval.  

I ask again, “Can we go?”  I touch his sleeve.  

His hand slaps hot behind my ear, pushes me

away.  Tears slip from my eyes, the enamel 

orchid on the stringed instrument grows fuzzy. 

Later, I’m in the backseat of the car.  Wheels

slide  in rapidly falling snow, and my mother

shouts, “Be careful, dammit!”  The dashboard

light like a match flame, illuminates their bloated

faces.  The falsetto speaker hums, “I’ll be home

for Christmas.”    I stare out the window.  Crystal

snowflakes fall without menace or harm.

~ first published in North Coast Review

Mermaid Tattoo Becomes Enmeshed . . .

artwork: ralph murre

Mermaid Tattoo Becomes Enmeshed

in Her Relationship

by Sylvia Cavanaugh

I was crafted carefully and with cunning

to link my ink to this relentless red flow

nailed down to the pulse 

like a seashell ocean’s echo my 

two dimensions bend and arch

they ache to the rhythm of his three as

I’m plastered flat to a twining twitch

of muscle and deeper down

I sense the bone I cannot grasp it makes

my stomach turn and yet my

tiny nipples burn I yearn for him

trapped beneath the death of him

as his outer layer flakes away

and I’m the only witness

we hover over women with

their open legs like rowboat oars

the wretched separation 

distantly they beg for us and

gnash their teeth

we heave and sweat

the salty sea and thrash

a flash of scale on

spangled tail

'til his eyes roll back

and stare through mine

~ first published in Peninsula Poets

The truth is often hidden . . .

purse by turtle ridge studio

 by Firestone Feinberg

The truth is often hidden

As if it's made of gold —

Although it can't be stolen

Neither bought nor sold

Nor stashed away in purses

Nor kept in wallet fold —

The truth is — truth is worthless

Until the thing's been told.

~ first published in Verse-Virtual

Venus de Milo Goes Bowling

artwork: ralph murre

by Kelley J. White ~

Venus de Milo Goes Bowling

and you gotta love her, she’s just no good at it,

but she gamely stumps forward, ball pressed

between her chin and breast, and it keeps falling

out, clunk, clunk, and rolling in the gutter

and she’s up against Michelangelo’s David

with all that long-limbed, lazy power

concentrated in his wrist, looking out

of half-closed eyes at his own powder blue ball

and the Discus Thrower, wired tight as a Banzai

tree, all speed and follow-through, and she

would like to drum her fingers, she would like

to chew her nails, she would like just this once

to tear her hair out of that classic bun, then

the doors open on the outside furnace heat

and in comes Kali, on a tongue of white flame,

Kali, in her Blue Avenger Aspect, and

Kali she shifts her face, click, click, serpentine,

to each side of two mudra’d hands, catching

our girl’s eye, with that Ray Harryhausen classic

movie animation motion, then

whack whack whack, whip whip whip, smack smack smack,

strike, she rolls a prefect string with the house black

ball

~ previously published in  Ze - Books