POEM BY CAROL SHILLIBEER
Hermes descending a staircase
the wo | man__the winged staff__the doorway
what is left of magic sparking in her feet, bones
or self, she cannot decide, basalt under the green
of olivine, descending the long black sweep of stair
and where we (wo | man of varied names) stand,
heads cantilevered above the abyss, necks' mineral
sweep, we are feeling dizzy, the stairs tumultuous
arising, white/black of the far away, & the agate floor
& winged heels | diamonds dropped shatter
under foot | curve of calf muscling apart identity
& snakes come loose | the restraining staff,
the wo | the we | the man, and the message comes
tumbling, it's the snakes uncur|cur|cur|ling
down the remaining steps, the multiplicity
of eyes | one apsis or another; perception's
alchemy & Her | me | s descends
toward | the we |
that stands |
After a wildly productive life as an alchemist, Carol Shillibeer retired to read tarot, stalk Hierocholoë odorata in the lands west of the Pacific cordillera, and consider the implications of post-human materialism.
POEM BY ASKOLD SKALSKY
Light curls up into a scrawl
of unreadable loops unbundling
on the reedy ground. I start to spin
top down and break, a punctured egg
without its yolk. The lawns are quiet,
the people passing in their ordinariness.
I'm unconsoled, though walking steady
over concrete slabs, tumbled and flat
like the hapless albacore scooped
by a drift-net miles long and numbed
out of the trammeled sea.
My veins are plugged into the air—
the secret's out, words disconnected
and disconsolate, spilling their grunts
and sibilants in the morning glaze.
I muse this dying absurdity, the ancient
fluids of the heart, the faces of those
that I've loved now and then.
Askold Skalsky originally from Ukraine,has poems in over 300 magazines and online journals in the USA as well as in Canada, England, Ireland, and mainland Europe. A first book of poems, The Ponies of Chuang Tzu, was published in 2011 by Horizon Tracts in New York City.
POEM BY ASHLEY HUTSON
The Deep End
I shaved my body bald as an eel's
and offered it to hot July.
The sun caught me, told me I was too lovely
and dunked me in a giant fish tank.
When the neighbors found me they called it a pool
and told me to leave.
Look at my fish body, I said.
Look at how beautiful I am.
I wove my slick, bony tail
like a Chinese ribbon
and ducked under for good.
I burrowed into the winter mud that ringed the drain.
It might have been deep, secret sand
that had never seen light.
It might have been the ocean.
Ashley Hutson is an emerging writer living in Sharpsburg, MD. Her work appears or is forthcoming in SmokeLong Quarterly, DOGZPLOT, The Heavy Contortionists, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Calliope, Pantheon, and elsewhere. Find her on the Web at www.aahutson.com.