Two (2) Poems by Rachael Inciarte

Mechada

I need a single word for

picking meat from bone for

licking clean the plate and

for what it is to suck marrow

from beneath our own fingernails

my mother says ​“mechada”​ when

a thing is pulled apart and

shredded but

when I say devour what I mean is

something with less tongue

and more teeth

Sevenling (The Wolf)

The wolf is on the other side

Of the door and he is gnawing

At the pillows

He is knocking the books to the floor

Upsetting the shelving too

There, on the other side of the door

When I asked to be let in, I said please

“Planet Love” by Emma Sunog

I. The Scene

I imagine your summers like this:

A lazy midwest heat wave pulses through town.

Stale air trapped in the car presses around you.

The car starts up—a clearing of the throat

on a quiet morning.

The streets are low, even;

the trees are deep green and full.

Sunlight oozes between the branches,

dappling the road,

glinting off the car as it passes by.

You park in the empty lot and shut the door;

its slam echoes.

Through the diamond-shaped spaces

in the black wire fence, you see the vast rectangle of blue

catching the rising sun.

At each summer’s end, you dip the mouth of an empty jar

into this hallowed space and it comes up again

brimming.

These jars line your desk.

You are ready to start the day of work.

The surface of the pool waits, calm.

II. The Children

Alert, fresh, young, ready,

the lined-up kids enter the water.

They follow your movements with their eyes

and then with their bodies.

The water responds to every motion;

when you duck under, ripples emanate

from where you have disappeared.

You guide and you instruct.

You keep your voice steady.

You keep watch over cautious souls.

When she tells you she wants to confide

in you, there is nothing to do but listen.

“Clark Street Merrow” by Jennifer Stephan Kapral

My daughter almost died today.

My icy feet pressed into the worn carpet, toes still unsteady despite so many years on land. The last L train of the night rumbled by our apartment, concealing my footsteps as I crept into Carrie's room.

Blankets and red locks twisted about her as she slept. Her hair shined the brilliant ruby red of Irish folklore, evoking tales she had never known. I cut her hair just a week ago, but it had grown long again, lengthening in defiance of my continuous efforts to keep her appearance normal, unnoticeable, attempts that were rapidly failing.

At school, she drew pictures of dead fish, sad seagulls, men with nets. Teachers said she was falling behind in assignments, spending most of class gazing out the windows. Was there anything I wanted to tell them?

Then earlier today at a classmate’s party by Lake Michigan she flung herself into the waves, nearly drowning before a lifeguard rescued her. Carrie told me she didn’t remember what happened, something inside her called her to the water. Concerned families, the same ones that bring casseroles and worn dresses for us, implored me to sign her up for swim lessons. They didn’t know that she would never be able to swim like a human.

The floor creaked as Evan came up behind me. His calloused hand gently fastened on my elbow, his fingers tracing circles along my skin.

“Ana, she’s safe now,” he whispered.

I sighed. Instead of letting him know how wrong he was, I let him be my escape, his touch and sharp cologne taking me far away from counting pennies and concealing secrets.

⚜

The next morning I scraped the dishes of any leftovers, rubbery, cold egg grease on my fingers then in my mouth, hunger echoing in my stomach. My lips sucked at sharp nails, much sharper than yesterday, scratching my gums. The webs between my fingers were growing more pronounced, translucent against the white ceramic.

I turned on the water, ice running over my hands, purple and green soap bubbles surrounding me. I tried to breathe deep, to think about open ocean, to imagine floating away on sea foam. The water on my skin calmed me in a way that deep breaths of air never could.

Evan’s cool breath was at my neck. He rubbed my shoulders. “Let me help.”

“You can help by getting me the tonic.”

The thick liquid slid down my throat as they left for work and school. I clacked the locks into place as their footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Sleep came. I dreamed of my childhood in Ireland, the early years of our marriage, vaguely recalling rocky shores and sweet whispers, then a desperate dash for a departing ship. A mist lingered in my mind, memories remaining blurry.

⚜

"They're dying the river green today," Evan said at dinner that night, poking at a casserole someone at church made for us. “Apparently, it’s a Chicago tradition.”

"Did they dye the river back home in Ireland?" Carrie asked.

"No. And this is your home, not Ireland."

"Can we go see the river?"

My eyes met Evan. His eyes spoke of our rushed promises so long ago. Ireland was to be forgotten, in the past.

"Your mother hasn't been feeling well, you need to look after her."

"But I want to see the green water!"

“Carrie, you know to stay away from the water,” I said.

She yelled at me and left the table crying, Evan left to comfort her. I remained at our table, one hand scratching at the plastic tablecloth until my burgeoning claw tore it. I reached for more tonic and gripped the bottle so hard it shattered into shards.

⚜

Carrie was inconsolable, so much so that we agreed to spend the pennies we saved for ice cream. She wouldn’t look at me as they left.

I tore apart our apartment looking for pictures, mementos, any clues to how we were to survive. I pressed forward, pressed until my sobs turned into a soft singing, leading me to a box hidden inside a suitcase we never once used since we fled Ireland.

Words of a sharp language spilled out of my mouth until the box popped open, revealing a salmon skin cap, its rough surface gleaming. I put on the cap and memories flooded me, days of swimming in icy waters, songs of sadness and longing, fish flesh in my teeth. Then hard days of lustful fishermen, giant spears and ancient curses.

I remembered the day I met Evan. He had a soft laugh, solemn eyes. He spoke of troubles at home, of finding a new life in America. His words and kind touch were worth never looking back.

I blinked the memories away. A smaller hat rested next to mine, one with a bloody shine. I pictured Carrie’s body thrashing in the water. How long before she is discovered or dead, or both?

⚜

In the middle of the night, I tiptoed into Carrie's room. She stared at me, taking in my burgeoning veins, rapid breaths. Nodding, she wrapped her arms around my neck as I pulled her into my hold.

A dim haze enveloped Chicago as we escaped into the night. The rumble of the trains covered our footsteps. My feet quickened when I wondered if Evan had heard the door close gently behind us. Were those his shouts, the echoes of his worn shoes hitting the pavement as he ran to catch us? Our hearts would be forever broken, but better our hearts than Carrie’s life.

The Clark Street Bridge materialized through the mist. We ran to the middle; I didn't look back as the shouts grew louder.

My emerald veins popped, last breaths squeezing from my lungs. The soft stars set Carrie’s red hair and cap aflame. She gripped my hand and we faced the glowing green water together.

Some will say we jumped. But we dove.

Three (3) Poems by Amanda Hartzell:

Date Night

Tonight, leave your box.

Have dinner in a magic eye

and stare it into sense. My hand

on the napkin, red glop. Your eyes

on the waiter, blue curtains. Everyone in love

with the squiggle, our never baby. How dare you. Our knives

say delicious things. Outside the window lives

citronella and gasoline. Moths offer decaf and mints.

After the pad thai and laminated menus, go home

a long way.

You’re so wet.

Dry off. Be startled.

Hold the stolen silverware near your chest

and hear it chitter. Why are knives so beautiful

when they leave the table? Maybe it’s theft

or seeing hardness at night.

If your stomach hurts it was definitely

the food, not what you said. Pass bars and neon

smokers, jackets on fire and skirts like that one state

you’d never visit, turnpike horrible. Stop. Someone has a tattoo

they’d love to tell you about. Cartoons keep us light

and immaculate in the dark. Draw me and I’ll draw you. I left

my outline at the restaurant and will call them about it tomorrow. For now

take whiskey shots with a rabbit and its third eye, itching to get off

an arm. The sound in the bar grips the ceiling. Olives and ski ball.

Beer beer beer. Kiss me in the bathroom like a child.

Everyone on the sidewalk stays high

in little museums of friendship. Drumrolls

and outtakes, late night details glossed over.

Did it happen: the hurricane warning, gum on your sandal?

The rabbit is back, sloppy and intimate

as a classroom diorama. We place the knives

in the shoebox and remember our mints. Don’t touch. Must

touch. If we’re still hungry, eat in a glass room with a stranger.

If service is terrible, eat the glass.

The Industry

We took home our leftovers and they gave us the waitress too.

She wouldn’t fit in our stomachs or in one of the styrofoam boxes.

She attends to the boxes. We are drunk trying to sleep,

hearing her open and reopen the fridge with gentle pucker smacks:

Hello how are you tonight?

How did it taste?

Can I get you anything else?

Light cools her face. Her fingers on a lipped edge

shine with the grease that made

the dead animal delicious.

I go downstairs and bring her up.

I put her down in the bed between us.

She smells hopeful like a pet.

I call her by her nametag but she does not respond.

The dead animal in my stomach turns to her. Fond recognition.

She tucks in her tips on the pillow. Crinkled old men.

Please write a review she says as her arms fall off to hold me.

How is it tonight?

How did you taste?

Can you give me anything else?

Villains

Rooting for bad weather is like

crushing on the villains in movies

and if this dooms me drag me to hell

then take my pants off. The prettier you

are, the uglier I am, the more powerful

us both on a dark and stormy night. Are

there ambulances, stand-offs, a child

leaping from a burning building?

Gangsters eating ice cream, a sad loner

with a gun and bad grades — or you, a cigar,

magic words in a New England forest

ablaze in the snow. I’m here too.

Someone in a mirror is watching

only themselves. Someone is starving

to death for the sake of feeling better.

If I feel you I’m in a fairy tale where no one is safe.

People only transform into monsters when

the wolf eats open eyes, the zombie licks tongue.

We kept both as pets. Once I saw a hand crawl

across my bed but it was just a pillow, it was just what

I didn’t say in the dark.

“Body Color” by Kara Lewis

“I’m getting to like you so tremendously that sometimes it scares me.” —Georgia O’Keeffe in a letter to Alfred Stieglitz dated November 4, 1916

We drove to New Mexico to see the landscapes of bone across open desert sky. It was the fall of my art class, when I thought a palette and a beret could save me from a blank page or a day job. On the drive, I asked you to move with me to at least seven different states, the way O’Keeffe swayed between skyscraper and ghost ranch. My ghosts piled impasto between us: The one who left notes on my doorstep after, as if to bite, to remind me that the texture of a paper is also called its tooth. The one who I almost married. The ones who left me like a colloid — suspended. The particles never settle. You can see them in my eyes even when we laugh and climb through an art installation devised of a giant refrigerator. Just as paint and mayonnaise share the same chemistry, I wait for you to look up and find me ordinary. My art teacher wore a wedding ring and said the beauty of watercolor lies in its transparency, but I know paint goes in the path of least resistance. I want to believe you are Stieglitz. In another life, you leave a wife and write 40-paged letters to me. I want to believe you think a difficult medium can be beautiful. O’Keeffe wanted New Mexico and loneliness, wanted a child her husband didn’t. When I tell you I can’t have children, it proves life and art are nothing alike. What’s dry stays dry. You can make every color but the primary ones. If you are blue, then I fear losing the sky or losing myself within it. Stieglitz took more than 200 nude photos of O’Keeffe. She did not recognize herself in a single one.

“A good night at the nursing home” (After Dylan Thomas) by Abbie Kiefer

The first days you raged,

raged. Spit. Clawed at the man

who pushes the pill cart.

Now, when wheeled to the

dining room, you eat your pudding

and canned pears in silence. You stare

over the heads of the Girl Scouts

who visit for merit badges. You’ve

stopped asking for Charlie – a mystery

to all of us. And you don’t keen for

home anymore, saving me from

saying again that you’re already

here, home, in a room that smells like

bleach and brine. You smell it too

but in the muddle, you think it might be

raw garlic. Wet dirt. Smoke. You think

you’ve set fire to the place—

bundled sticks beneath your bed,

touched them off with a splash of gas

and the soft flick of a match.

Now you’re wondering what burns first.

I’d say the dresser, the cheerless

silk fern, the curtains, then the tissues

on the nightstand, going up like a meteor.

Then us: you, me, your sunken-looking

roommate. And her oxygen tank, which

finishes off everything else. Don’t worry.

There will be nothing gentle about it.

“Meat or Cake?” by Claire Laura Williams

An elderly man at the

Center of the high table

Cuts:

Meat or cake?

I can’t quite

Make it out.

Something sweet

Or

Something dead.

Either way,

everyone is

Happy around him.

To carve, or slice;

The knife shines

Dangerous in his hand.

Maybe you will

Look like this

When you are

Old and have

Forgiven me.

“Alive Alice” by Melissa Watt

The blackgum makes room

for your tapering bolero.

Her simple leaves scatter

and pale as you arrive

on your ovoid leaflet,

winged arms outstretched.

Your baselines match—both

are perfect and imperfect.

The spruces wonder if you

will play the oboe

but the petioles don’t dare

to dream these days.

Just as the flowerbed

announces its crucible,

you turn to face the entire

scene. Like the aphids,

you are a pioneer.

You scatter a few

coarse molars—your

warm touch dares them:

Take root, as the worms

assemble below.

Two Poems by Samantha Elizabeth Taylor

Nevada City

The filtered light in our room this morning hurts

the way it does to hear your name called but not meant for you.

Somehow it’s November and I’m waiting

for another man to rouse without urging.

I brew our coffee in my towel still,

spine long and flat as a birch, I have always held my posture

at the sinktop I allow a din of longing so loud

I’m certain you’ll startle.

I take the photo I know will be the last of you

asleep in that heedless boyhood way, a red luck flush

hand damply limp across your cheekbone

your body, this door I can’t hand in the key to

spread guiltless across the continent of our bed.

Your boots stacked neatly by the doorframe

strike me as so viciously sad I think

I could collapse.

But there is work to be done,

this is what we mean by the work.

I think perhaps, if I could rearrange the room before you wake

we might forget all about the shape we keep making, if

I bend the way light does into late afternoon, if

I hold you the way one might hold a tomato,

so that none of the insides come out

I could ravel it back up, this untidy pool of thread at our feet.

I didn’t love you right away

when we met you were smaller somehow

against the sum of so much burden behind me.

Your hand on my thigh like a thing you could only just

get away with and I, I, the bigger fish on the line.

Didn’t I make a good meal? Tell me

how does it taste when you don’t have to ask for it?

When like air it fills your mouth just by opening?

The Matter of Course

I agree to meet, frozen peas to my eye

to cull the swell which isn’t the product of a hit,

but may as well be.

The last time I felt this small, I was.

A Chevron somewhere outside Chicago,

my father giving me until the count

of his last smoldering cigarette,

to stop crying or be left.

On the ride back, hands to my chest as if to

bless that numbing revolve of tire tread

which allowed there to be nothing to say.

My still half built mind learned to turn the world,

the wound around like a worry stone, to wear it down

with insoluble questions like how

can I kill the part of me

that looks at this and sees love.

I agree to meet, white knuckle the stone

tight enough in my palm so I can’t feel the life I planned

dripping out, that cheap red quiet of concession,

one more soft animal in the landscape

of my safe harbor going stiff.

Beside me all the while, the girl who didn’t come,

who is halfway to Asheville by dawn, on the run again

her careful heart like a reclaimed trophy in her lap,

one hand on the wheel, one cutting quick

through the cricket dense air.

She listens patiently while I tell him it’s ok

etching a fresh cedar notch in the wall of my undoing.

She keeps her hand on my shoulder

to remind me of that small, essential weight.

She makes the sound I can’t

when he doesn’t touch me

when the absence of his touch seems to take

all memory of other touch along with it

“The ovation” by DS Maolalai

if someone were watching

they wouldn't see the fly. just me

eating dinner, clapping occasionally

above a glass. nobody

is watching. I drink my wine quietly

to echoes of my own applause

The learn more about our wonderful contributors, please view the short biographies for Issue Seven by clicking here.