Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Aubade” by Jesse Wolfe

 

Her brown curls heaped on the pillow,
the comforter sprawled below her breasts.
She fled into her magazine.

For a minute, motionless, he stood.
Starlings chattered in the walnut tree.

*………. * ……….*

In days they decided on a baby.
It was not the last “decision.”

* ……….* ……….*

As, like coils of hair, they each unraveled
in stories too intricate for pianos or flutes,
he strained to envision that tableau
(the floral bed spread they bought in Berkeley;
her lips almost closing, moving back apart
as she subvocalized; his own feet sunk
into the carpet)
in successive surrogates of that home:
their beach bungalow in Venice,
their box apartment in Japan …

*………..* ………..*

She lingered in the garage, assembling
their grandson’s tricycle.
He’d be out of his wheelchair next month, or not.
They’d live to see the child’s graduation, or not.
Their years living apart
would come to seem natural—an exhalation—
or always hurtful and capricious.

He returned to his music stand.
For a week he’d been practicing
the first movement of this piece by Roussel.
He could be in high school again.
Focus, repetition. No expectations
save one note tilting toward the next.

 

Jesse Wolfe teaches English at California State University Stanislaus. His debut poetry chapbook, En Route, appeared in December 2020. He is the author of the scholarly monograph Bloomsbury, Modernism, and the Reinvention of Intimacy (Cambridge, 2011) and is completing a second scholarly book about intimacy in contemporary Anglo-American fiction.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Womb Ache” by Elisabeth Blandford

The stork does not fly over my home.
It is empty and abandoned.
It is sticky and thick.

It is barren.

I’ve watched babies,
in their baskets,
slip from my body
into the fresh white bowl.
Pink water swirls away
in a hypnotizing whirlpool,
replaced by clear, clean water.

I press my ear to the baby blue walls,
listening to the creaking pipes
where my child swims.
Carried out like a corpse in a casket of blood.

With hands pressed to my stomach
I retreat.

The rest of the day
I listen for cries within pipes
wherever I go.

 

Elisabeth Blandford is studying English for Secondary Education at Towson University. Elisabeth’s passions include reading, writing, and teaching. When she’s not reading or writing she can be found running, rock climbing, hiking, or mountain biking.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “The Woman Sitting Across Me On The Subway” by Angie Kang

The Woman Sitting Across Me On The Subway

is made of clay and she keeps sweating, making the entire car smell like earth and salt and

change. She unwraps her shawl and reties it around her head to keep its domical shape, but

the fibers dig into the clay and leave an imprint. I try not to stare. I think it’s brave to go out

being so pliable and raw, so blatantly unfinished and proudly in progress. It does no good to

go into the kiln before you’re ready to be cremated. Dry clay dust is toxic and once inhaled

settles in your lungs in silty layers until the breath is choked out of you.

 

Angie Kang is an illustrator and writer living in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative, Porter House Review, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, and others. Find more of her work at www.angiekang.net, or on instagram @anqiekanq.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Between Sternum and Stomach” by Leah Bushman

Between          Sternum   and                     S    tom        ach

David did you hear me when I told you?      I whispered to your ancestors.             They caught

a salmon sailing           and gathered ‘round the table. They ate until delusion. Salmon came to

tell me good folk bred a fairly           common one in you.                       One two, one two,   you

caught me as I was falling. I cannot remember my calling,                but David did you hear me

whispering?          I’ve been pleading with salmon,          get back into the mouths and let them

swallow you down.       Salmon sweetly said, Darlin’ you might as well be the one who’s dead.              

And I can’t remember my calling, but I know I had mistaken it for you. 

 

Leah Bushman is a nature gazer and animal lover who rarely takes life seriously. This is her first publication. A Towson University graduate with a B.S. in English, she can be found on social media at @leahbushman.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “A Modest Revision for Wedding Vows” by Josh Lefkowitz

 

In sickness and in health

goes the common ceremonial refrain,

but I would add in boredom

and while doing day-to-day mundane activities.

 

In grocery shopping on Sunday mornings.

In folding the laundry side-by-side

with country music radio accompaniment.

 

I’m not saying this is me

at my most romantic.

But let’s be practical, too.

 

The average life expectancies:

76 for men, 81 for women.

(Lucky you, with those extra five years

and complete control of the TV remote).

 

Average age of marriage:

27 for women, 29 for men.

 

That means we’re staring down the collective barrel

of forty-seven to fifty-four years of matrimony.

Yes, I think a pragmatic revision seems right.

 

And isn’t that the real meat, anyhow?

It’s true: a car accident or cancerous cyst,

an unexpected hospital stay

will often breed the most tender exchanges.

 

We know how to love

when the threat of a too-soon end looms.

So why do we forget how it always looms?

 

Let’s practice love on some dumb Tuesday evening,

where everyone’s exhausted from stresses at work

and neither party has the patience for risotto.

 

Let’s love as we heat up the leftovers,

love the familiarity of our ten-year-old

chipped tableware which we swear to someday replace.

 

That you, in spite of the terrible nightly news,

continue to sort our paper from plastic

strikes me as an impossibly hope-filled act.

 

I’m serious! Of course I loved you then, when

you wore white, your hair an immaculate bouquet.

 

But now, decades later – remembering

how temporal all this is – I watch you

floss your teeth for the ten-thousandth time

and my skin can still turn to gooseflesh.

 

The Parisian honeymoon’s a distant memory, and yet

I would not want to be anywhere other than here:

you putting on your nighttime t-shirt,

the one with the Rolling Stones logo

and a little hole in the shoulder material

through which your skin beneath shines.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe that I get you

to have, and – come here – to hold.

 

Josh Lefkowitz was born and raised in the suburbs of metro Detroit. His poems and essays have been widely published online and in print, including in The New York Times, Electric Literature, Washington Square Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, The Millions, The Rumpus, and many other places, including journals in Canada, Ireland, the United Kingdom, Germany, Australia, and Hong Kong. This is his third publication with Grub Street.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Our Sockets Won’t Stop Bleeding” by Leah Bushman

Wendy on my wrap around porch saw you first. 

Wendy on my wrap around porch saw you first. 

Saw the dust flying from the back of your pickup truck. 

Saw the dust flying from the back of your pickup truck. 

Wendy first, saw the dust of your back porch

wrap around the flying pickup truck from on my. 

 

Your eye socket black as coal pierced me, I think you are my soul 

your eye socket black as coal pierced me, I think you are my soul 

mate is the coupling of two same souls, shame is the mirror I hold. 

Mate is the coupling of two same souls, shame is the mirror I hold. 

Eye coupling black shame I hold of two are mate,

mirror socket pierced same souls, coal is you think the.

 

You leaned in to kiss me and your socket had grown an eye gone crooked. 

You leaned in to kiss me and your socket had grown an eye gone crooked. 

You pulled back searching for a pain, plucked out a tooth wriggling with worm. 

You pulled back searching for a pain, plucked out a tooth wriggling with worm. 

Kiss me you searching pulled pain, wriggling with your plucked back socket. 

Crooked worm grown a me and had an eye gone tooth.                       

 

Wendy saw me and you coupling, first had shame flying around mirror sockets.

Dust your porch of pain, pickup the worm grown searching of a mate,

a soul pierced black with truck coal is wriggling on my crooked. 

Kiss an eye I hold a tooth pulled back.

Plucked you from wrap leaned think,

gone are the same two socket of me.

 

Leah Bushman is a nature gazer and animal lover who rarely takes life seriously. This is her first publication. A Towson University graduate with a B.S. in English, she can be found on social media at @leahbushman.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Baby Boomers (False Flags)” by Scott Laudati

Saturday night and London blows up.

France takes a bye this week.

New Jersey sleeps tight

and I tell my father

it’s only a matter of time

before

a taco truck with Haliburton stamps

runs down a few Chinese tourists

and a white girl from Indiana.

They’ve done it before

I say –

they print money

and detonate explosives

from the ground floor up.

Put your hand to your heart

and thank god for Walmart.

Is that Him out there?

No.

It’s another talking point to get

your kids on your knees

so when your head rolls

into their laps

your sacrifice

will have some meaning,

and you won’t look like the other fools of history

who died for nothing.

 

The trumpet sounds over a

misty DC morning.

A frozen yogurt stand

hands out extra sprinkles.

The kids lick up icing

while the buildings fall down.

But they didn’t see any planes

in the sky.

It was just like last time.

The parents burned their books

and checked themselves into camps

and smiled at the barbed wire

and said, “It won’t happen here.”

 

Scott Laudati is the author of Hawaiian Shirts In The Electric Chair REDUX (Cephalo Press). Visit him on social media @ScottLaudati

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Dinah” by Millie Tullis

 

…….And he took her, and lay with her, and humbled her. (Genesis 34:2)

 

daddy knew right away

sat me down and said

is this a good boy

 

it hurt to sit

i am thirteen

i am crying

 

am i crying

if i start

i can’t stop

 

daddy said

they’re good people

momma put on her hat

 

followed him out

good people

we are

 

………..my best friend home

………..sick that day

………..i walked the short cut

 

………………..it was a new dress

………………..pretty as a picture too 

………………..much pink in the trees

 

momma says 

i’m getting married 

i can’t go to school

 

for the baby i gotta 

rework some old things 

stitch up some new things

 

the small white socks

i make with one

long thread

 

………………..my brothers are angry

………………..at him comin

………………..to sunday dinner 

 

………………..daddy won’t 

………………..let them get

………………..a word in

 

………..someone don’t

………..come home 

………..that night

 

Millie Tullis is an MFA poetry candidate at George Mason University. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Sugar House Review, Rock & Sling, Cimarron Review, Ninth Letter, Juked, and elsewhere. She serves as the Assistant Editor for Best of the Net and Poetry Editor and Social Media Manager for Phoebe. She also reads for Poetry Daily. You can find her on twitter @millie_tullis.

Poetry Feature: “Days of 1985” by Ellen Kombiyil

 

 

Oh the body! The delight and am I / normal?

from The Lost Pages of Anne Sexton1

 

We who pretended to lie down at parties 

with lovers on vinyl couches or wished

we didn’t but wouldn’t admit it, licking

salt from necks, bass leaping with our breath, or was it

expanding/escaping inside us, black light’s

purple stripes transforming eyes/teeth into green 

glowing beings, separate, alive, our faces

into negatives, cried. If we did it (we did it)

to feel for a moment if not loved then

wanted: A boy jammed his tongue in my mouth

because the Coke bottle chose me when it spun,

which was my first kiss. I didn’t ask questions.

Or I fielded Ouija board guesses Yes/No/

………Good-bye. Or I walked into that closet,

willingly let them lock it. O, my wasted 

adolescence! Assessing vertical stripes 

on swimsuits as a function of decreased 

belly fat, obsessed with how thighs pooled 

when I sat, how absent thigh gap leads to ruin.

I dieted on Cheez Balls (one every 55 

minutes, dissolved on the tongue in a pool

of melted butter). Or I teased my hair

to make my face look slimmer. Ruin, from 

the Latin ruere, “to fall” as in fall 

headlong or with a crash. We were always 

falling laughing collapsing unable to stand 

our bodies pulsing with want.

 

 1. The book quoted is fictional, wished into existence, as is the quote.

 

Ellen Kombiyil is the author of Histories of the Future Perfect (2015), and a micro-chapbook Avalanche Tunnel (2016). Publications: New Ohio Review, Nimrod, North American Review, and Ploughshares. Awards: Mary M. Fay Poetry Award from Hunter College; Academy of American Poets college prize; Nancy Dean Medieval Prize.

Poetry Feature: “Chronicles” by Isaiah Brown

Junk’d up on adrenaline.

Nobody could tell you anything.

 

I was grateful enough to move

to your hometown, let alone 

become your friend. 

Isn’t that the Taylor kid? I heard the 

Police searched his house for six hours.

Nobody was ready to see what your

home looked like though. 

 

How you rescued 

a dog from the neglect of its drug-

dealing owners.

Nonetheless you were from the wrong

side of the tracks, yet cut so different

from everyone else.

 

You split the community in half.

Modern day robin hood, only you could do that.

 

One end of the spectrum left in 

grief of a young genuine life taken too soon.

Others commemorated the death 

of a bandit.

Almost like they saw the end of an era, 

understanding that your dirt bike was never

to be heard in Adamstown again.

 

You and that bike.

The loss didn’t hit me until it was too late.

I realized I didn’t hear that rust bucket of a machine

ripping down its iconic strip outside my window

anymore. Suddenly your crew made less and

less appearances throughout the town.

 

I never finished the cigarette you offered during our first encounter.

I only took it so you and your friends wouldn’t think I’m square.

 

At first, I thought it was cool, that

my peers recognized me as part of your legend.

It was a handful of times we even hung out.

I feel so stupid now! To think a legacy 

could fill the void of a fallen soldier. 

Now all I am left with is a memorial card, and 

posts of your life depicted through Facebook.