She was writing on her kitchen window 
with strong, sweeping strokes inscribed 
in the steamy fug 
of something savory simmering 
on the stove for supper. 
Invisible words in a visible world 
of high-rise towers.
Her scarf hooding eyes 
scanning the horizon 
for a danger that would come 
from outside 
that stuffy kitchen. 
Writing, writing – writing what?
A heart-felt plea,
a cri de coeur ? 
helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme 
cursive colère...
I’ve had enoughenoughenoughenoughenough!
Or maybe she was urging
a child to recite his lessons, 
lessening the confusion of living 
between two worlds, two cultures.
Or maybe she was writing… 
poetry, proving Fermat’s theorem, putting
the finishing touches 
on the closing arguments of a case...
In any case, 
she erased the inscription 
with a swipe of the diaphanous 
sleeve of her dress, her forearm arcing 
across the window, wiping 
away the evidence 
before the danger 
came home, came in
from the cold to scold her.


Author Bio:
Andrea Dejean writes poetry to try to understand why cymbals clang in her ears when she witnesses certain scenes of everyday life. Sometimes the writing brings understanding; sometimes it doesn’t. Although that has always been her reaction to such scenes, the clanging cymbals have had a cross-cultural note for much of the past three decades as, after having left the United States for the first time just after graduating from college, she has lived in the former Zaïre (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo), Cameroon and the French overseas department of French Guiana. A native of Detroit, she is permanently based in southwestern France. She is the translator of a book on biodiversity and has published her own poetry and creative fiction and non-fiction in both independent and university-affiliated literary journals.

Christmas Cards
The smell of gingerbread and Christmas tree was everywhere.
I lay writing happy cards, Hallmark thoughts to oblivious friends.
Your body rigid next to mine, knees almost at your chest.
I wished I could appease you, please you, shout you back to kindness.

Surely that love was still there somewhere. I tried to slide the card from underneath your toes.
Did this trigger your explosion?
Or was it the echo of some fleeting impulse, a shattered shell we held between us.

Berating me for all I’d done or not done.
I made it to the door outside our bedroom.
You were as close as love. Or maybe hate is closer.
Forcing the door open, your hand came at me,

a flash of gold and onyx, the ring I’d given you,
the cold edge caught my eye.
And then: gone, the front door slamming, my daughter’s feet approaching me.
Appalled by my broken face, her tears like the lights on the tree 
I lay still on the parquet floor, inhaled her scent of soap and powder.
I lied the lie that came to dominate our lives. 
And she believed me, of course she did. 

The pile of cards scattered on the floor.
The guilty card from under you shone up at me: 
deep blue sky, a sled of laughing children, joyfully
leaving a dark house behind, greeting the moonlit snow. 


Author Bio:
Ellen Jeanne Archer is a Bronx-based poet and teacher. She has worked with students with autism for 25 years. She began writing poetry at 9 years old and has remained faithful to the art ever since. However, life has frequently interfered with--or perhaps fed--her art. She was married for over 20 years and has raised two children. They have grown into strong and loving adults with passions of their own (her son is an actor and poet; her daughter is an assistant teacher in special education). She believes that all of life is one fabric with the threads of reading and writing helping hold it all together. She hopes to continue writing through this life into the next.

I know no truth but the mirror,
Deflections and reflections in a constant dance.
It is only when their footwork begins to discord,
When their harmonizing voices obliterate into incoherent notes
When their flexible form hardens into a concrete asymmetry
That the truth of the mirror transforms into the
Lie of reality.

​
Author Bio:
Simona Laski is a fourth-year undergraduate college student who enjoys using words as vehicles of expression.

I have heard
That a cat’s purr
Will heal broken bones
Maybe 
That is why
I often find myself
Lying my fractured mind
On my friend 
Who purrs


Author Bio:
Lexi is a student in the process of receiving a business degree. She has one cat, Pooh Bear, who is a Ragdoll and has a cuddly, sleepy personality. Lexi does not frequently read poetry, but does enjoy creative writing as an emotional outlet. 

We hold on for comfort.
We should let go for the pain.
We curl up to contain all we have.
We should stretch out and release.
Tasks to forget keep us distracted.
Making it a job to remember eludes us.
Thoughts in the night disturb peace.
Nightmares come to remind memories
they cannot escape from their host.
Hurt contains action and has to have life.
We let go for the comfort.
We should hold on for the pain.
 
 
Author Bio:
Kimberly Cunningham spent her childhood being silent and keeping dark secrets. It was not okay to tell or something would happen. She hid the secrets behind her eyes and no one saw them. When she became an adult, she started letting her thoughts spill to paper. They looked magnificent at the tip of a pen when before they were ugly at the tip of her tongue. To date, she has three published books and 19 published pieces of work and a blog. She wrote her way free and escaped those secrets.

Every gesture he makes is full of music,
he’s so handsome and rich.
He says let’s go to a party--
but won’t take you home when you want--
or—let’s take a walk down by the shore
and he holds your hand too tightly 
except you’re embarrassed and don’t want him
to get the wrong impression so you go along,
the entire coastline stuck in your throat
you don’t trust him completely
afraid he might knock you down 
and he does—suddenly you hear 
your ankle rip—the ligaments torn
by his weight crashing down full force
and you don’t grimace or cry out
telling yourself this time will soon be over
and time does jump forward
he lets you out of his car 
where you limp to your door but your ankle 
will never be the same.


Author Bio:
Dale Champlin is an Oregon poet. Her MFA in painting and photography developed her critical eye. Her first chapbook of poetry, Twisted Furniture, was published last year. When she’s not writing poetry, Dale designs books, publicity campaigns and logos. As adjunct to the board of the Oregon Poetry Association, she is the editor of the 2017 Verseweavers collection of poetry. Dale is the current co-director of Conversations With Writers, a monthly presentation by accomplished writers. Dale has published in Social Justice Poetry, VoiceCatcher, North Coast Squid and has poems soon to be published in Moments Before Midnight and Willawaw Journal.

Heaven only knows 
how I manage to spin on my toes; 
discovering new ways 
my body can bend. 

Up on that barre, for an hour, I forget 
how much it hurts me to love you. 

Instead, I concentrate my efforts on movement - 
learning to count steps,
attempting to balance my weight 
while enriching my artistic development. 

When I face the mirror, I try to understand 
what is it I am doing wrong. 

Up on that barre, for an hour, I forget 
how much it hurts me to love you.

I stretch and flex until the music stops; 
reproducing action, lighter than air, 
for my own pleasure. 

I read from pain 
and write my story through dance, 
as my arms and legs 
generate motions in space.


Author Bio:
Orit Yeret is a writer, artist and teacher. Born and raised in Israel, she currently lives in the U.S. Her work recently appeared in The Borfski Press, Ink Pantry, Drunk Monkeys and Crack the Spine, and is forthcoming in Blue Lake Review and Evening Street Review. Visit her at:  http://orityeret.webs.com

I am a piece of porcelain
Thrown among the bulls;
Yet the painted glass
Masters all the mules.
 
They buck, and rage, and kick,
And flare their bulging chest;
They stomp the quiet dish
And snort with all their zest.
 
Shattered on the ground,
Mosaic all of crumbs,
In the dust resounds
Beauty’s greater sum.
 
Porcelain may look fragile
And beauty may look frail.
But the largest bull
Will heel at beauty’s tail. 


Author Bio:
Carter Davis Johnson is an English major and cadet at the Virginia Military Institute. He grew up in Roanoke, Virginia where he developed a great passion for literature and began writing. Mr. Johnson has been published several times in The Society of Classical Poets, and writes both poetry and prose.