Single Subject College Ruled Spiral Notebook Solid Black
by Teo Hamacher
You, trapped between the Spanish poetry collection
and the faux leather-bound Bible that was
probably taken from a lonely motel desk
by a young person driving cross-country to visit a friend.
You, whose plain cover betrays years of history
through creases and a single teardrop coffee stain,
whose dog-ears and intestines are
tattooed with scribbled prose.
You with eyes that are the stilled wings of an insect–
a photo between page thirty-six and thirty-seven,
seeing it I wonder if you dream
of the stories it tells.
You, I imagine, have seen the world.
Or at least parts of it, the lives of your authors,
the desolate highways and the goings-on
of this very room, on this very shelf.
You who sits silently, who I want to ask
why are you still here, why not thrown out
along with last years notes and doodles
you, who remains silent.
Heart Blood
by Anya van der Merwe
I am filled with a heart, bigger than the moon
It breaks the bones, the cage in my chest
Slicked in sanguine, and soaked in salt
It’s a stubborn struggle, against the sternum
It has grown too large, for my form and figure
Dreams its own orbit, and gravity in space
Crushed calcium bars, cracked to marrow
Battering out, a messed bleeding beat
Rivers of red, flow down my front
Pools at my feet, all hot and sticky
My thin blue veins, begin to run dry
Mopping up blood, with white paper towels
I’ll use it as paint, I’ll store it in bottles
A life-force given, that I mustn’t waste
So please sing it softly, to a steady beating pace
So please hold it gently, inside your embrace
Daisy Chain
by Asher Fritts-Weeks
When wandering ceases to end
and birds talking fills the air
squirrels running after each other
breaking sticks, moving leaves,
walking this way, counting trees.
When walking turns to talking
of memories long forgotten
of families ferrying the four
daisies woven together, sitting,
waving, wanting, wishing to please.
When wishing to turn back
there are flashes forming
laughter from a picnic blanket,
notes spewing slowly and softly
drowned out by flowing with ease.
When waiting you can hear
the hum of cars,
the snap of twigs,
the voice of trees
fabricating a choir with the breeze.
Rebirth of a Naturalist
After Seamus Heaney’s “Death of a Naturalist”
by Max Reiner
Some whisper vengeance,
most laugh, disappearance.
none will ever know,
except the children, still at play.
See his skull, gaunt moving face.
His frogs were adults now,
each little egg grown.
Monsters in their own,
warted gray brown,
as bubbled bogged brine.
Summer sun swept vicious
through thin puke green leaves
Boiling bugs in wet soup air.
They stuck in the muck, summoning him.
Frogs began to wretch again.
The air, liquid as bog below,
hazed wetter still through gurgled cries.
He crawled up through their throats
gray bone, fingernail, strands of hair,
congealing in the muck.
Born again a man,
through detritus and debris, bits of brother.
Rotted face, bony smile, gurgled laugh
like bubbled bogged brine.
Born again, a naturalist.
Art by Sam Noble-Kats
