Margot Nelsonis a French-American writer currently living in the green mountains of Vermont. Her writing has been featured in Teen Vogue, Q/A Poetry, The Honey Mag, Capsule Stories, honey & lime, and as an upcoming featured poet in Mineral Lit magazine. Her writing was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net award. When she isn't writing, Margot is usually reading, knitting, or taking care of her community garden. You can find her on twitter @margotnwrites NodesIn which we’re digging through any potential consequence and circumstance (Before and after when there were tulips in cups and flowers from dirt) The confluence of water and earth Moon slivers on the backs of the fields to which you feel near Did you forget to plant the seeds? Take your time, and in any case, I’ll tell the universe you said hi
All the while Waiting for you You don’t need to try As you wait for the world to come to The senses you seek to find When you open the Door and see all this time you had the lines For all you needed to say to Someone hoping to speak Patiently wanting to tend to your Silent light and ease what you mind Jacqueline Brown is an Irish-American studying at the University of Pennsylvania. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in The Blue Nib, FEED, The Blake-Jones Review, the debut issues of Truffle Magazine and The Initial Journal, and elsewhere. SunspotsThere was an unlocalizable hissing That for a second I thought had to Be connected to the rain smell, the Landscape like a struck match. An Angling of the head in relation to Noise seems to echo against how We are all waiting to become some Other thing, currently, or for time To become some other thing, to Diffuse or melt. The buzzing part Came from a haloed tangle, the Dense clot of wire conversing. If Predictions serve us I suppose the Peak will be in four days, or seven Days, and I hate how they don’t Know. I hate how I don’t even Know what a peak means, really, And would you notice one in its Pre-crash swelling translucence From the couch, from the folding Chair in the garden. I hear tell in Video calls of people wearing Masks in places closer to town, or Police coming to a friend’s house, But out here I can’t really imagine Centres, space appears to have Both grown and shrunk as I angle My way into the backgrounds of Sitting rooms in Germany but I Have not seen Grafton Street in a Month. As I cried the room began To swell with sunshine like there Was some sort of fizzling energy- Spike, most pathetic of fallacies Really. The desperate feeling itself Seems like something that lights And wells, nervously filling corners. Why are you telling me this
on the morning of my colposcopythe rain began at 4:36 a.m. i had been dreaming about a way to get everything done - in this, just a list of mundanities, mostly shuffling papers into piles and screaming at my hands for not working like they used to. i, woman destroyed, & simone de beauvoir: seated on the table behind my head, all together swimming - we were waiting for the inevitable snip of tissue. under a microscope, what do i look like? what do i look like with the sunlight trailing across my arm? my whole and my parts, skin sucking in and promptly spitting out. i think about ladybird beetles, the infestation in my parents’ old house when i toured it for the first time. the landlord said a quick poison would do. but i saw their eyes, the pockets of red coalescing in the door frames and along the window latches, drinking each other’s wings as i stood above them. the territory you’re looking for has no mapsand, pine, baby gnat wings stuck in the corner of her eye subtle swab of cotton to wipe it clean shaved her head beneath a halogen lamp, dust-soaked fan heaving with static, feeding and whirring the forgotten cells she dreamt of riding her bike through five states, water bottle kept between her legs, a sharp 45-degree angle maybe a few drops for the snails took to a trail, 172 miles in and collapsed in a bush outside of Oatman, Arizona a donkey shuffled by, clattering hoof a silky buzz of lost adrenaline if she gets up, feet a revered tool, she’ll see the bike resting deep in a patch of desert marigold tracfone cracked, 12 prepaid minutes left sticks her hand in the side-leg pocket: a gum wrapper, bike key, a loose nug another donkey in her periphery, what could she make from this? a fly lives on her eyelid for one minute and lives the rest of its 38,000 minutes elsewhere, like it knew the body would have to go home
Paste a wife on me. Spend the evening engagement ring shopping. Plan out a fancy proposal. Wash my life in wedding white-- anything to put a wife with me. My grandmother will marry me to a toilet if she could. Does everything have to be bouquets and baby names? Does everything have to be cooking and cleaning conversations with the wife she is casting? I understand my grandmother is super old school, but I’m more than just a handsome man who looks like husband material. Grandma, you do not have to always throw flower petals in my face or ask me about long-ago lovers, they’re just as dead to me as bridal veils. When the right one comes, I promise we will all be able to pop champagne over it. Until then, you don’t have to shove me in a house with a wife and kids and call it happiness. Happiness is loving life without having to love it with someone. To be frank, I’d rather be an old bald bachelor writing poems about when she comes than to be tied down with the wrong one.
Quarantine poem #131 “public health is confirming 5 additional cases...”He walks from the hill a little kid inquisitive he won’t hear a word he’ll give you these theories like putting their bulldog to death was a sign from god and ghosts in the wheelbarrows and did you lose power too ? because he did down there and who needs water ? we wondered what happened with a white bandana around his face and mosquitoes like telephone poles strung up silt-splashed legs and in his hand, balanced, a saucer of meat and onions grilled in blue smoke he walks to a patch of sand and dust stripped of long grass then steps through an orange door, a long step, too long for the carcass of his mom, which bends at the waste in bush shade that sits in leaf slur and shadow dance give me a car he says I’ll be president I’ll give them the wind too and lungs to have it baskets like rubber chickens everywhere like dog toys in the store Quarantine poem #128 NV → UTQuarantine poem #125 remembrance through farm pits of sound Hunter Gagnonlives in North Berwick, Maine. He has worked as a State Park Seasonal Aide, a bookseller, and as a poetry teacher for elementary schools (before the pandemic). He holds a degree in Philosophy and has served in AmeriCorps and FemaCorps. He is a winner of the Mendocino Coast Writers' Conference 2019 Poetry Contest. His work has appeared in 7x7, Joyland, A) Glimpse) Of), Cabildo Quarterly and elsewhere. "car!" and every child moves to the side-- that is the rule of playing in the street. these kids part in the middle, two on either side. a black sedan passes between them. when i was growing up, i played baseball with my neighbors, first and third base marked by a broken paving stone on the sidewalk. second base was the lane line. my biggest fear was breaking a window. “shotgun!” the yell reclaims my attention. these kids are not fighting over the front passenger seat. they’re playing shoot ‘em up, their “bangs” echoing off buildings. “double knife!” they are screaming "double machete!" slashing at each other's necks with flat, empty hands. they’re playing in the parking lot stepping on weeds in the cracked pavement and crumbs of broken glass. as i watch their games, i wonder what these young eyes have seen.
31⁄2 sonnets for 7 minuteshere’s a confessional. the first time I kissed a girl, it was in front of everyone I held dear at the time, a few feet from the bathroom with both calves pressed to the ground. imagine a bullfight, if you will, except the estoque is my tongue & there is no marked climax. still, the boys cheered us on like racehorses. we were all there, semi-aroused in the semi-light, & there was always someone missing out. all i tasted was the absence of taste. (if this is what heaven feels like, I don’t ever want to know hell) fastforward: the first time I kissed a boy (not you), it was an airless summer. we were spinning bottles & inflated stories & no one yet knew what all the bases were. the girls were never brave enough to ride their crush’s shoulders. but more of us were starting to understand—what all the perverse references meant, where they were looking when they stared—& I think, at some point, our hands morphed into broken glowsticks. I remember all the imprints, how they stuck to skin like chlorine, how some interactions just couldn’t be washed away. the girl I kissed got hypothermia, possibly from sticking her head in the clouds for too long. is going to heaven really a choice, or is it more mandatory? let me try again: she kissed him first, even though she wasn’t single, how does that work? WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON? we’re on the margin of november & on the peak of adolescence. some say things like I’m a teenage boy, I can imagine fucking her next to your bed if I want. we don’t skip scenes in any movie, not anymore. we skip entire movies to make our own scenes. some guys, amidst the chaos, have to be categorized as collateral damage. honestly, I’ve known her for a while now, & I’m still not sure if she’d go that far-- ah, beauty of hindsight. what was it about your scentless breath & effortlessly pretty palms? are our heavens relative? if so, is hers better than mine? have you done it yet? there comes a time when you can’t just brush off that question. the gossip’s a healthy blend usually, jealousy disguised as judgement & vice versa--how many times? —as if this desire were quantifiable. (we still played truth or dare at this point, just without all the ‘mild stuff.’) we all wanted to do shit but no one wanted to be done. they held a contest to see who could colonize the most bodies & we took it too far, once or twice. somewhere along the way, I woke up, & she was gone: probably for the best, that I stopped seeing so much of her. no more feverish pipe dreams. looking back, it doesn’t seem so bad, our makeshift heaven in the semi-light. —I think I miss it, just a little. Size Zero | PantoumStretch marks are a sign that I don’t belong in this body I was given. I don’t exist between the lines; I remain invisible until I am able to squeeze my thighs into the crevice of these jeans. In this body I was given, I don't exist without emptying myself to feel whole. Until I am able to squeeze my thighs into the crevice of these jeans, I'm just a tsunami that over-floods, crashing without emptying myself. To feel whole is to cut a hole in my stomach. Today, I'm just a tsunami that over-floods, crashing silently, packed away in the mud. Today, I cut a hole in my stomach. It's hard to locate something silent when it is packed away so thoroughly. Look, nobody bothers to search for me under water. Nobody tries to locate something between the lines, so I remain invisible. See? There is no hand that bothers to look under these stretch marks. poem for a Blue Pagewhen their daughter first started speaking to my parents again, she asked for blue wallpaper. overwhelmed with joy, they said anything you want, love and proceeded to let my walls bleed azure // that same year, the girl lost 20 pounds – in the blue room, the girl forgets how to take mirror selfies: her phone doesn’t capture her body properly underneath all the cracks. the girl buys more baggy clothes to hide her bruises under. she got them from a failing immune system (it wasn’t long before her entire leg started growing purple), but she doesn’t know that yet – girl starts drinking blue vitamin water: three bottles a day. Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner – girl finally learns about anorexia in health and wellbeing class. they teach her all the symptoms & all the ‘warning signs’ & any stressful or traumatic event could lead to it: abuse, rape, divorce... how do we seek help? just don’t have a traumatic experience. girl listens, laughs as she sucks on a gumball. the most satisfying meal she’s had in months. – that same year, the girl loses 20 pounds & everyone congratulates her for the glow-up // the color blue represses your appetite. it’s basic psychology, her friends said. best weight loss technique out there, the internet said. we all tried it together as a joke at first. it wasn’t supposed to be serious. we didn’t mean to turn an entire girl blue.
forget about it for a while.
remember that you were supposed to not forget. try your best to cough up some guilt. pass it on. give it water. give it acid. give it moonlight. overcompensate. let it germinate, then give it hormones. approximate & formularize & repeat. marvel at how easy & simple life must be for the seedling. sever the branches that repel you & graft new twigs onto the remains. bestow it a surgically attached, calculable path it just has to follow. marvel some more at how little it’s grown. when the tree becomes too big to raise in the yard, remind everyone of where it’s rooted. ingrain the texture of toxic soil in its veins. ignore all the bruises & self-inflicted slashes on it. gift it a name & a destiny. a heart & no means to follow it. I learned of love as a drought, scavenging for scraps of light in a dark room. it wasn’t that I never knew how to speak. it was that you didn’t let me. two poems: An Asian-American Becomes an American-Asian / Watered-Down Youth by Cole Pragides7/6/2020
An Asian-American Becomes an American-AsianWatered-Down Youth
To be Temporary is to be Chronicfor Eurydice World Wrestling Entertainmentfor Stephanie McMahon Beata Beatrixfor Elizabeth Siddall
--This poem refers to the 1967 Martha Graham Dance Company’s European tour, performed at the Shaftsbury Theatre, London. It was a challenge to dance night after night in the paint peeling Shaftsbury Theatre where we three were crammed into a cubby hole dressing room while one of us warmed up up on the floor. When Dana or I entered, we had to step over Louise, carefully slide out our chairs while she contracted and released behind us. The stink was staggering-- from sweaty costumes, overpowering b.o. and from layers of warm-up woolens rarely washed because nothing dried in this March-damp UK climate. One night, after repeatedly telling Louise to exercise on stage, I yanked out my chair too quickly stabbing Our Lady of the Floor. I’ve had it, I said. No more floor work on the floor. I once had compassion for this so-so dancer who, it was rumored, Martha invited into the company because Louise’s ancestry could be traced to some saint from the Middle Ages as if this made her Graham-worthy. Nothing changed. Dana and Louise stuck up for each other and it was two longstanding members against a first-timer. So we continued to clench our razor-sharp fangs. Jean Colonomosbegan her career in the arts as a member of the Martha Graham Dance Company. As a playwright she’s been produced in New York City, Los Angeles, Santa Fe and Edinburgh. Her poetry has been published in several journals namely Askew, Spillway,Third Wednesday and the American Writers Review. She’s also shown up online at YourDailyPoem. Most recently M. Colonomos has been writing with poet Ann Buxie. Their new work is titled KNOCK KNOCK and they’ve been featured readers at the EP Foster Library, the Library of Thousand Oaks and Beyond Baroque. Her chapbook is ART FARM published by Finishing Line Press. For more go to her website. II. TaxonomyI. ConcavityHolding emotion in the body is a visceral thing. The center sinks, turning bowl or vortex. I read somewhere that the fabric of the universe curves around mass. Like that. Cup your hands, like holding a bowling ball. A round weight. Lay down. Set it onto your chest. Feel your edges start to flatten. I want to remember what it felt like to look into a mirror for the first time. To watch a body move as you move. See yourself depicted — perfection, simply by existing — each hair, the twitch of a brow, curvature of your lip. To lean forward, watch shadow fall over your face. Closer. Again. I have been marked by things during my days on this earth. Sometimes I used to drag towel to grass and lie for hours. Finger on wrist. Controlling the precise inflation, release, of my ribcage. All of this air in me — and out again. I could almost see it, as steam from slow kettle. I have been marked many times. All of this air. I let myself obstruct everything that happens to me. Writing them, one by one, into shadow. It is almost empowerment. To do this to myself. Not quite. In nature there exist groups, containing all different shapes and sizes of things. Protists and jellyfish. We metamorphose, just like mayflies. These groups. It moves as you move. Hold its gossamer wings like a goblet. Lift stream-water to your lips. Abstraction has always been this for me. Comfort, gliding down my throat. I float here, between myself and this other. Both are me, but one is a stranger. Her body suspended in liquid, jarred and shelved. Panic stings in the nostrils. How can I look at myself like this other person? Drag fingertip over the surface of the mirror, and wait intently for response, for movement. The center of the bowling ball, pulling everything deep into my sternum. Sometimes I believe the weight of this will crush me. Scatter me as pottery into ash. How can I look at myself? As I lie breathing on the grass, I feel it travel into the air. This reluctant release of my lungs, the air pulled out of me, squeezed like paint from a tube. It moves like mist, slowly, then faster. A migration, from lips to air, fine particles sucked out and away. And as a faint recollection, somewhere far, I hear the sound of a deep inhale. Lily Klinekis a student at UC Berkeley, and is currently Editor in Chief of Berkeley Poetry Review. Her writing, forthcoming in Lumiere Review, Emerge Literary Journal, and Red Alder Review, explores the ways we carry emotion, inhabit our own bodies in illness and health, and find ourselves pulled towards or away from expression. She studies environmental science, but makes room in her heart for poetry and language, always. OkaySo yes we’re okay We say it with our saying apparatus We are good this is The answer assessed as appropriate You register our response On to the next task to optimize Cool, great, yeah you too So yes we’re okay You’re okay too Everyone continue with your assignments These Kinda ScalesI’m a thousand odd shimmering scales of wonder and terror A few shards short of cool crystal symmetry I’m busy bouncing back beams of sunlight I’m charred and obdurate all at once I’m good and slippery with incantation varnish Drunk gutted bug eye gonzo heart bombing Do it! Point out the unworthiest among us I got mean magic to dole under duress I’m half of this and half of that Crow feather/ rainbow of oil Don’t touch me/ do touch me I guess I’m big and glorious and I will burst
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