Softening

By Sarah Soltis


Lotion, lotion. Listen in
To the voices of the moment
As the cream caresses your skin.
Do they murmur that you are undeserving?
Or did you know this from your sin
The kind that cracks and bloodies cold hands
Causing you to scrub and scrub again?
Do you sense the soothing is not meant
For you, who, losing resolve already worn thin,
Came to crave the dehydrated dryness, draught
That winter’s air brought in,
That despair brings out?
Lotion, lotion. Can you win
Over calm in this kind,
uncalled-for motion?
When your reprehensible hands redden
Can you rid yourself of your rocky pride
And let the grace, the softening, begin?


Sarah Soltis is an avid reader, coffee-drinker, nature-walker, and student from Maryland. She enjoys spending time with her two dogs and family. Sarah has scribbled poems in search of the divine for years, and she hopes her writing expresses the beauty and uncertainty of life in a God-riddled world.

The Bristol Dogs

by Paulette Callen


Perhaps it was the implausible drama; the extreme contrast from dark to light, warm to cold, death to life; the inexplicability of it and the impossibility of describing the depth and nature of my experience, but I never told anyone about it — this tiny event that unfolded as a gift from and a glimpse into a universe that is essentially loving.  That’s how it felt at the time.  And still does.

To understand my enchantment, for that is what it was, one has to understand my feeling for dogs.  Unless we hurt them and warp their natures, turning them insane — to either aggression or fearfulness — dogs are possessed of all the goodness and joy and altruism that humans only ever aspire to.  I think dogs are the angels among us.  I have experienced first-hand their intelligence, compassion, intuition; their living-in-the-moment joy, their loyalty, and devotion.

The place is Bristol, South Dakota; the time, January during the three-day blizzard of 2012.  I am staying in the nursing home where my mother is struggling to die.  The nurses called me to come back from my home in New York.  She is unresponsive, they told me.  But she isn’t.  She bats their hands away if they so much as try to moisten her lips.  She doesn’t want to be touched.  I don’t know if she knows I’m here.  I do know that she wouldn’t care if she did.  Her room is dark and foul with the rankness of her dying breaths.  Her eyes are completely black from renal failure. I’ve never seen her so thin.  I’ve never seen her without her teeth. The person in the bed looks nothing like my mother.  

In my first novel, I wrote a scene where Gustie, after sitting at the bedside of a dying loved one for days, ventures out and loses her way in a blizzard.  She is guided home by deer —phantoms, the spirits of deer that no longer exist in that time and place.

The blizzard ends. I go outside for my first walk since I began her deathbed vigil.  The sky is sapphire blue over a landscape of brilliant, sparkling white, unbroken snow.  I’m numb and feel disconnected from ordinary life.

I blink in the unmitigated brightness of snow and sun and sky, which seem to reflect each other, exponentially intensifying the brilliance of each.  Shimmering white, ethereal white, a whiteness not possible in the city, a whiteness that bespeaks beginning-of-the-world purity and cleanness stretches as far as I can see — a considerable distance as there is little to break the view.  Bristol is a thriving community, population 341.  The nursing home perches on a small rise at the edge of town, and in a town this small, you are never far from wide open spaces. Only the sidewalk around the nursing home has been shoveled, and only a small area in the parking lot has been cleared.  Suddenly, as if materializing out of the light itself, in the distance appears a dark spot that, as it gets closer, takes the shape of a brown dog, laughing mouth, flapping tongue, bounding through the snow.  Barreling straight toward me. A young Hershey lab.  He is warm, as though cold and snow do not touch him.  He leaps around me and up, resting his paws on my shoulders and I embrace him; swept into his luminous eyes, I return his smile.  And then, out of the same ether appears a black dog, leaping joyously through the snow.  He is older, more filled out, but also warm and sleek.  His dark eyes are large and lustrous, and I feel seen.  My first thought is Are you real?

They clearly are friends and play with each other and with me, and even as I play with them and pet them and allow them to leap up on me, I am not sure that they are real dogs.  I’m feeling like the character in the novel of my own creation.

When their exuberance carries them off, bounding through the snow and out of my sight, I realize that my face is near frozen and I should go inside.  A lady in a wheelchair parked by the window greets me: “I thought they were going to knock you down!” and then I know they were flesh and blood.  When I ask one of the nurses who lives in Bristol about them, she tells me they are strays.  Hunters often abandon their dogs here, she says.  A woman feeds them and takes them in out of the cold.

They were not spirit dogs but dogs with spirit, the spirit of generous joy and friendship and delight in being alive.  I’d never seen them before. I never saw them again.  They came to me at just that moment as a gift.  Nothing and no one living or dead could have refreshed me, comforted me, as they did.

Not the nursing home chaplain, a kind woman who came into the room the day before, sat down (uninvited) and asked if she could pray with me.  The asking was in such a way as to make me believe that she needed it, and I said “You can pray for my mother if you wish.”  It is not for me to deny others their prayers, their comfort, but in my mind I screamed, If God answered prayer, do you think my mother would be lying here like this, rasping out every breath, for days and days?  (Why does God have to be begged and cajoled into doing the right thing, anyway?  And when he doesn’t, why do we let him off the hook?)  So, the chaplain prayed.  I did not.  I fancied that she left, puzzled or pitying. 

Had my mother’s death been peaceful, serene, like the deaths described in all the books I’d read on dying, or like I’d heard others describe the last moments of their loved ones (“she saw the Lord,” “he saw the light”), I’d have maybe murmured a prayer, but it wasn’t.  Her dying was hard to the last second. She died with a snarl on her lips and black eyes that seemed to see the minions of hell coming for her.  The nurse said, “This is often the case with Alzheimer’s patients.”  I see.  Then dying is wholly dependent on the dying person’s state of mind.  There is nothing objective at work here?

The nurses left me as soon as they had pronounced her dead.  I tried to close her eyes.  They would not close.  Even this! I thought.  She had never allowed me to do anything for her.  Even this.  I tried again and then left them for the undertaker or someone with pennies in their pocket.

What did the dogs do that the chaplain could not?  They gave me the experience of joy, connection, beauty, fun — not just the wish for the promise of it.  They showed me the other side of the nature of things.  The sad side, the darker side I’d been living, in that dark, rank, room, and that is the nature of things — everything dies.  Even stars.  But the flip side is that what lives can live in joy.  Asking the question, Where’s God in all this? and trying to answer it, does not increase our happiness.  Playing in the snow with a couple of dogs does.

This true story is in a small anthology that no one has heard of, let alone read, called “Epiphany” published in 2015.

Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the space she returned to has been made home by a dog.

The Search

by James B. Nicola


In search of the sublime, I read the book
you wrote. In search of peace I read it twice.
In search again of excellence I took
a walk with you and listened to advice.
In search of peace I lingered by the brook,
removed, like you, my footwear. In search of
I don’t know what, you turned my face to look
at you. But it was not in search of love
I did as you and what you asked me to
and waded barefoot in the waters while
the moon appeared, ascending behind you.
That huntress—chaste, divine, and free of guile—
shone cool as those clear waters and your smile;
and all three showed me that my search was through.


James B. Nicola, a returning contributor, is the author of six collections of poetry, the latest being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense. His decades of working in the theater culminated in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award.

“The Search” was previously published by the journal “Poem.”

“Curious Creatures” and “Gods Die When”

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by Gershon Ben-Avraham


Curious Creatures

Something there is God loves about humans,
something that he longs for, something he needs.

He sits, listening to their singing and
watching their dancing, while clapping in time,
swaying in rhythm to their joyous music.

For a while, his loneliness moves aside,
leaving space within him where he places
these marvelous melodious beings.

His creatures sing to the music of his
spheres; his universe hums with happiness.


Gods Die When

Gods die when no one believes in them.
Old religion lingers, Pater wrote,
latest in the country, practiced by
dwellers of small towns and villages.

Gods die when the setting sun’s fiery
red glow on mountain snow isn’t a blush
caused by the sun god’s goodnight kiss, but
refraction and reflection of light.

Gods die when prayer becomes empty,
the sound of clapping hands inside a
vacuum, not an alarm bell to
awaken sleeping divinity.

Infinity weighs heavily on
hearts that yearn for gods, who long to love
and be loved by them, but find instead
the dark, cold abyss of endless space.


Gershon Ben-Avraham is an American-Israeli writer. He lives in Beersheba, Israel, on the edge of the Negev Desert. He and his wife share their lives with a gentle blue-merle long-haired collie. Before moving to Israel, Ben-Avraham earned an MA in Philosophy (Aesthetics) from Temple University.

Ordinary Time

by Joe Bisicchia


Amidst the fallen space junk a bronze serpent maybe,
or not,
exaltation of the Holy Cross, with God something to grasp
or not,
maybe more so God among us, as we knot,
they baptize a baby at mass.

A wet headed little crying Joe is lifted to claps.

And it’s then I realize,
Heart of Love is so extraordinary and
we’re all together individually blessed by such a sacrament,
unless some of us lose ourselves not.

I wipe a tear.


Joe Bisicchia writes of our shared dynamic. An Honorable Mention recipient for the Fernando Rielo XXXII World Prize for Mystical Poetry, his works have appeared in numerous publications. His website is www.JoeBisicchia.com.

Late is the Hour

December 15, 2020                             Volume 5: Issue 3


Late is the hour.

Matthew said it like this:

“Therefore, stay awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the master of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect.”    -Matthew 24:42-44

Paul wrote:

“But understand this, that in the last days there will come times of difficulty. For people will be lovers of self, lovers of money, proud, arrogant, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, heartless, unappeasable, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not loving good, treacherous, reckless, swollen with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power.”   -2 Timothy 3:1-5

And, as if we couldn’t already see all these things, Jesus himself said:

 “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be great earthquakes, famines and pestilences in various places, and fearful events and great signs from heaven. But before all this, they will seize you and persecute you. They will hand you over to synagogues and put you in prison, and you will be brought before kings and governors, and all on account of my name.” – Luke 21:10-12

We’re not there, yet.  At least not in the United States.  But we’re getting close.  Jesus goes on to tell us that, “This will be your opportunity to bear witness. Settle it therefore in your minds not to meditate beforehand how to answer, for I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which none of your adversaries will be able to withstand or contradict.”

Late is the hour.

Stand ready.

And behold the power of the Lord.

The Fountain

by Suzanne Eaton


He gave me the most alluring water fountain–tan rocks and blue crystals layered on a bed of sparkling sand. The water pooled and swirled from side to side and fell from minature pools to medium-sized pools before spilling into the lower basin and returning to the top.

For years it sat on my desk, surrounded by delicate plants that seemed to flourish in the babbling sounds that it made. In the background of my day, I could always hear the water moving over the little rocks. Sometimes it seemed to trickle, other times it would rush and then flow softly, but it always sounded alive and passionate.

The plants and I were a bit more alive as its constant vibrations sang to our souls. Others would stop by my office, pause and breathe in the calm.  Prayers of the heart seemed to wash up and thoughts became crystal clear. Every week, I cleaned it, filled it and plugged it back in. When I pushed the button on the power strip it was renewed as was I.

I set the fountain aside one day to make room on my desktop for tear sheets that came from the press. Just out of sight, I did not notice as it began to gather dust. My project grew and the plants and fountain moved again–across the room–I dusted and filled it less frequently. The plants flourished, but sounds of the life-giving water were far off and I could not drink them in. In time, dust and hard water deposits stole its beauty.

It ran dry as I looked the other way and busied myself with the matters of the office. One day, I boxed up the little fountain, “just for a while,” and one-by-one, my plants turned inside out and died. I plugged in a radio where the fountain had been and allowed its vibrations to set my subliminal ebb and flow. –Without even noticing, I too ran dry—serenity and peace were fleeting and the songs on the radio seemed to soak up energy rather than provide it.

I searched for hope in empty lyrics and topical chatter and every distraction that came through my door seemed strident and unwelcome.  Momentary prayers seemed to fall flat to the floor, no one paused to sit with me and smile. It was as if I was unplugged and in turth, I became less productive—I could not access my power strip.

I left the job, we moved away, and I began setting up a smaller office. While unpacking, I opened a box to find the muted, dusty fountain. I remembered the peace and stillness it brought—I longed for its fresh and rapturous sound. A remembrance of grace filled my soul and I knew that I was unplugged from my living water—suffering from an inner drought. My wiring was brittle and just like the plants, I’d wilted and dropped my leaves.

Years had passed since those thriving days when the plants and I were green and content. But, as I started the fountain soaking in water-scale remover, hope returned. Urgently, I sought to plug in, to drink and cleanse my soul—revive in life-giving water.  The vibrations of a higher power could surely help me renew.  I prayed for the clarity and strength to flip the switch on my own power strip–for what good is an empty fountain—set aside and dry? 


Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and magazines. She authored the book “Chinese Herbs,” reprinted by Harmony Press seven times. In her early days of writing, she was the first woman to get a feature article in Off Road Magazine and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Writer Shed Stories and Seaborne Magazine have selected her work for publication.
https://www.facebook.com/zan.eaton.5
Twitter: @SuzanneSEaton7
Instagram: eaton9191

Early Mornings in the Summer

by Christina McCaul


My favorite time of day is early morning, when remnants of civil twilight slowly begin to fade and the sun’s warmth feels soft. It is here, in the gentle hours of the day, I am reminded of the beauty of simplicity.

For early mornings bring empty beaches and empty roads.
They bring faded hues of blue and green.
Early mornings are by far my favorite time—
the tranquility they bring, the simplicity they bring.
It is here, in these hours, where we move most like the sun—rising slowly and gently— so by the time the rest of the world wakes, we have already started on our way.


Christina lives and works in Baltimore, Maryland. She holds a BA in Cultural Anthropology and draws upon many anthropological concepts, as well as aspects of her Baltimore community, to inspire her writing. You can check out more of her work on instagram: @christinaann_words.

Pan de Sal

by Chelsea Elizabeth Samson


When I was a little girl,
My mother told me that pain was a woman’s gift.
I remembered then, she was baking bread.

Her hands fell soft, melodic
and as the flour wove through her fingers
She would hum little sounds that painted my world.

I could never figure her recipe,
but she said that I would know when I was older.
And I have tried and tried since then.

I would never forget the taste of it,
a brown smell and a salty comfort in my mouth
that lingered as I ran outside to play.

Years passed and the days have grown long in me
and many times, I have made her bread,
if only to feel that brown comfort again.

But life always colored mine with its flavors,
at times too light, and thrice too sweet to taste.
Heavy hands made it bitter, and biting to the tongue.

I felt like I would never know her secret,
But the need to feel that comfort, and curiosity,
would not leave my soul.

And so once more I made my mother’s bread,
But the salt of my tears and pain, of age
added to water, sugar, flour, yeast and eggs

There it was – it finally tasted like my mother’s.


Dr. Chelsea Elizabeth Samson works in the field of health management and technology in the Philippines and advocates for human connections in the healthcare system. Alongside her primary functions, she pursues civic advocacies as a brand ambassador of Kandama indigenous weaves and as a Global Shaper under the World Economic Forum. She has been writing poetry since the age of 12 and has continued a love affair with arts through her painting and poetry.

Winter

by Greg Feezell


I can’t say “She’s in heaven.”
I can’t say “She’s not in heaven.”

Only this:

“Yesterday, I saw the snow falling.”


Greg Feezell has taught elementary and middle school in the United States and Japan. Born in California, he now lives in Yokohama, Japan, where he teaches reading, writing and poetry to middle school students. He is a jazz enthusiast whose dreams of writing a poem like Paul Motian on the drum kit. Greg eschews social media, don’t bother looking him up.

Two poems for St Therese of Lisieux

by Sarah Law


Welcome

God comes to me in daily irritants:
a tepid splash of dirty laundry water,
a cobweb resolute against my cloth,
a snag of fishbone in the meagre soup,
my reticence interpreted as sloth;
the cough and scrape of sisters in the choir,
a finger-smudge on cards I have designed,
a blanket gone. No room beside the fire.
A streak of pain. A faith I cannot find:
I welcome everything as bread and wine.


Dust

Since old and useless things are stowed
up in the convent loft, I wondered

whether they were nearer heaven
than our bustling nuns below –

perhaps the chill preserves them;
humility is fostered in the dark.

I crept up in my clumsy sandals,
touched rough wood, cracked bowls,

and honoured their abandonment –
my hands made holy with dust.


Sarah Law lives in London and is a tutor for the Open University and elsewhere. She is interested in saints, sinners and the twists and turns of language. If pushed, she would describe herself as a freelance Anglo-mystic. She edits the online journal Amethyst Review.

Sweeping

by Andy Conner


The Sikhs’ magnificent Harmandir, or Golden Temple, is the centrepiece of the temple complex in the holy city of Amritsar.

Auntie
Respected, rich
Humbles herself

Auntie
Knowing what pride precedes
Hitches her sari above her feet

Auntie
A forward thinking lady
Descends the stairs backwards

Slowly

Clears her mind
Cleans God’s house
For the pious
For the tourists
For the peasants who spend their lives
Swallowing dust

Not born to be a cleaner
She sweeps
Bare-handed
Right to left
Right to left
Gathering tiny piles
Of unholy dust

Each movement
Physically
A speck of dirt

Each movement
Spiritually
A broadstroke golden universe
Of love and hope

Sweeping
Unkind thoughts
Sweeping
Everyday sins

Sweeping
The one thing
No rug is big enough to cover

Outside
Sweet water reflects
Ten heavenly smiles
Nanak to Gobind

Inside
The eleventh
Pauses its reading
And bookmarks
The purity
Flowing in and out
Of four open doors


Andy Conner is a Birmingham, UK-based poet, activist and educator, with a long track record of performing his work nationally and internationally. His work has also featured in numerous publications. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee.
His credits include BBC Radio 4, Jaipur Literature Festival and India International Centre. He has also conducted workshops for The British Council.

Absolution by Flip Flop

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by D. Walsh Gilbert


As soon as I dropped
my flip-flop into Charlestown’s

Atlantic, knee-deep in outgoing
tide, it was gone, and I

caught myself before chasing it,
knowing all about the undertow

and the importance of the breachway.
There I stood with the other

looped onto my pinkie finger.
I closed my fist.

Ask me if I can speak
of balance, loss, and distance.

I’ve hobbled forty years
in a single sandal.

Forty—the root for quarantine,
the weeks for full-term pregnancy,

the length of fasting in the wilderness,
of temptation by devils, floods

and wandering in deserts.
Forty years before I pulled the saved one off,

and, finally waltzing barefoot, tossed
it to the undertow and currents.


D. Walsh Gilbert is a thirty-year breast cancer survivor. She serves on the board of the non-profit, Riverwood Poetry Series, focusing poetry against hatred, and as co-editor of the Connecticut River Review. She lives in a rural setting in Connecticut with her husband and two old dogs.

Today

by Rachel Racette


Today is a good day.

Today I woke with the sun and spent a few minutes basking under its warm glow. (It felt like your smile. The gentle brush of your fingers across my scalp.) Then rose and cleaned the grime I’d accumulated from the last three days from my skin, washed down the drain and put out of mind. My reflection shows my face full of color once again.

Today’s a new day. I roll my shoulders the heavy cloak of yesterday falls. I stand tall, breathe deeply, and a smile seems to have made permanent residence on my face. Today will be a good day, I feel it in my bones.

(Not like yesterday. Yesterday was a bad day. I woke to the fading memory of you. A dream that should have been a dream, not the tainted and bitter nightmare it became. I sobbed until my chest ached and I couldn’t breathe. Again.

Raised my voice like a killer’s dagger at my loved ones and snapped at every little thing. I wanted to bury myself and fought with teeth when they tried to draw me out into the light. I screamed, and your name fell like a curse from my lips.

Yesterday I remembered and missed you, and my emotions thrashed me like a violent thunderstorm. Yesterday was a bad day.)

Today I apologise and mean it. I make breakfast for my family, and their understanding and sympathetic smiles don’t dig like hooks under my skin. I smile, and my spirit bends under the relief in their eyes. I finish my plate, press kisses to my parents’ cheeks, and slip out, throwing my bag over my shoulder.

I walk, not stomp or run out the door, down the walkway. Birds sing, and when I pass my little sister, I let her pull me down and press flowers into my hair. She grins, a bright wonderful thing as I ruffle her hair, beating a hasty retreat when she reaches for me again. She laughs, and I laugh with her.

(Without a lie in my throat. Without the echo of your sound to bring me down. Anger doesn’t rise, and my mood brightens even more.)

I stroll down main street, flowers still in my hair. The elderly woman who lives next door looks up from examining the fresh fruit and waves. She’s always one of the few up so early, always the first customer on the block.

“Good morning!” She calls.

“Isn’t it just?” I reply. Her eyes gleam and she nods, turning to finish selecting the last of her groceries. I pause, the ghost of hands brush my shoulder, and I offer to help her carry her goods. She accepts, and I find I enjoy the detour.

Her house smells of lavender, and her big fluffy cat welcomes my pets without hesitation. She offers a peach, and I step out the door swallowing sweet juice and tender flesh. I dig around in my bag, find an abandoned zip lock and pocket the pit.

(You used to laugh at my oddities. My choice in books, clothes, the pieces of life I kept that people normally threw away. It turned you off more than a few times, until you saw what I did with those pieces.)

I rush back to main street, slip into the back of the only craft store for miles, and clip on my nametag and hat. The slip the flowers from my hair into another zip lock, this one filled with a variety of dried flowers. I wheel out with new and replacement supplies and immediately get to work. My co-worker watches from the till, her usual painted smile reaching her eyes.

Today is a good day for me. So it should be a great day for everyone else.

The rest of the morning passes by quickly, the steady buzz ruined only when two boys nearly knock over a display. They stutter apologies while the mother sighs. I stand tall, twisting my hat back as I brush off their worries, ushering them towards the kits on display, asking how they feel about knight and dragons.

The two leave weaving words excitedly as only children can, the mother’s face a bit brighter, a bit calmer than before, and rushes after her children, smiling and shaking her head at their backs.

(You used to shake your head like that at me, when I rushed through my words like there was never enough time to say it all.

There wasn’t, in the end. The sad thing I’m realising is; I think few people reach the end having said all they wanted to say. I wonder if you were one of them, if there were things you wished you’d told me when you still had the time.

I wonder what they would have been.)

Late afternoon comes and I walk home under yellow fading warmth. Home smells of the promise of a hearty dinner. I call out and am welcomed by a throng of voices; my parents from the kitchen, dancing around the tiles like they’re the Gods of this little place of pot and spices; from my younger sister before she rushed up the steps; from my even younger sister and brother drawing and playing in the living room.

I make my way to my room, shutting the door gently behind me. (I don’t turn the lock. There’s no silence ringing click. You told me I shouldn’t lock out the world.) I drag out the box from underneath my bed. Inside, are my tools; paintbrushes and paints, little bits of metal and rocks, carving tools and a mini-glue gun, wire and string and buttons. Inside there are dried flowers and crafts formed from collected and carved wood, horns, and a dozen other little odds and ends. Such as little figurines carved from peach pits.

I cross my legs and dig through the box, the pit sitting, waiting at my side. Something crinkles under my supplies and I stop. I shuffle things around and from the bottom, a little wrinkled and splattered with paint drips; is a picture of you and me. Smiling, holding each other close.

(It hurts, even after so long. A terrible inescapable pain I never knew could exist. Time feels so slow and too fast without you. Colors look duller, music feels lifeless, and there is a cold void in my heart where you had made a place for yourself. Life, is… difficult.

But– 

Today was a good day. Tearful memories will not make it untrue.)

The sun has set, and through my open window I stare up at the stars, praying tomorrow will be okay. Hoping the hole where you used to live is easier to bare tomorrow. I have loved you and will love you till the end of my days, but I will learn to live without you, because life is wonderful. You taught me that. (I’m trying not to forget it.)

Today was a good day. Tomorrow is uncertain, but I have a good feeling, because today, today I was made a little more whole.


Rachel Racette, born 1999 in Balcarres, Sask. Loves writing characters and creating new worlds. Has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Published in The Spelunkers: A Chipper Press Anthology.
E-mail: rachelracette@yahoo.com
Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com

Nails

by Courtney Cameron


In my father’s closet, catacombs,
Upon the dusty, sacred wall,
A humble hammer, aged, hangs
With broken stubs for claws.

The head is pocked, the handle chipped,
And taped around the fraying grip,
“Remember all the nails this drove”
Proclaims a note, in ancient script.

When the years weigh heavy on me,
And I feel worse for the wear,
I recall that one cannot grow worn
Without first driving many nails.


Cortney Cameron (crcameron.com) is a Tampa-area geoscientist and writer. Her poems and memoir essays have been featured in The Appalachian Journal, Sand Hills Literary Magazine, Sisyphus, and The Dead Mule. A nature therapy practitioner and instructor, she co-authored Nature Therapy Walks (Tenkatt). She is also the main writer for the forthcoming Catians comic series (Scout). Originally from the Appalachian Foothills, she holds a B.A. from Duke University and an M.S. from North Carolina Central University.

Crave

by Matthew Miller


I’m sipping tea this afternoon. Some sons nap.
Another asks, Daddy, spell special for me.

I have no letters to spell special for me.
But words for him: apprentices and spaces.

Certainty spawns danger in novel spaces.
New wine demands new wineskins, not more patches.

I want to walk in soft grass, not burnt patches,
so I overwater brown until it’s smooth

and squashy. I sink in like a pen that’s smooth,
like my hand sliding across unwrinkled thighs.

I wish I was young again, unwrinkled eyes
on watermelon slices, unsure what God says.

You can’t want wrongly with me, God says.
In wells, I find thirst; sipping while some sons nap.


Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – hoping to create home. He lives beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, and tries to shape the dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. He secretly the groundhogs, rabbits, and cardinals that share the orchard’s fruits.