By Marike Stucky
In the beginning, little ones,
Sky Woman dreamt of white blossoms plucked by darkness.
She was ripe with child and
The Tree of Life ripped from the threshold
between water and sky,
a cavernous void.
Delicate fingers clutched at earth, at seedlings
She tumbled into the abyss, hair streaming behind; black river.
Creatures of flight
cradled the poor girl in their great wings
laid her gently upon the shell of Grandmother Turtle
black river kissing the mosaic clean.
By Jordan Esely-Kohlman
In seconds after
exchanging names in a fashion
so pleasant as to
ease my troubled soul,
airs that once clung heavy to lovers
a new bed from whence new truths might bloom.
I hunger for these parcels of your essence.
when I was sure I was you
simply wrapped in a different way, or
perhaps we were jigsaw pieces
kept snug by junctures of
the most supple nothings.
By Audra Miller
(Bubberts Awards 2013 Entry)
By Megan Siebert
She rose early from a sleepless sleep
The high TUH-duh TUH-duh of the road grooves keeps her risen
Perpendicular, the waterless creeks of eastern Colorado
Parallel, the broken deer with the country road highways
Disappearing color of the landscape made more so by continents of ashen snow
Telephone lines follow like foamy limping waves.
The drowsy chins of the leading passengers pull their Ellington-filled heads down
She wants to shave the wisps of hair budding above their collars
Driver’s eyes shift mirror road mirror road
Hers revisit the colorless ocean.
By Jordan Elsely-Kolhman
The sun shone on Monday morn
in strands of flaxen memory.
Out past the horizon sat a visage,
its magnificence sifted through the atmosphere,
but those minuscule collisions resulted
in splendor unrequited.
The gentle warmth of lips shifting
into smiles a million miles away
lifted midnight mists,
weekend haze cut into
by moments of focus.
We play our celestial parts,
bodies revolving in and out of
eclipses, simply wishing for
the bliss of glimpses.
This life is but a struggle
through ellipses into
periods of certainty.
By Natasha Orpin
Do you hear it?
Of course not. There was little hope that you
would ever hear and know – listen.
For you run about all day chasing monsters and
digging in the dirt
with a playmate no one sees.
How does one put
to paper a thing silent in nature? How does
one imagine the imaginary friend to look?
This is the trouble
with the ineffable. Yet
the instrument – language – is
not the problem. Listen, child!
Your playmate has scampered off with the monsters and now
you are left to the inexpressible.
Ms. Dickinson will be along shortly.