Child lithe and brown, your hot, corrosive eyes
find fool's gold in the tar, your fingers quick and sure
snag the refuse of day: nothing there but a clutch of ruin.

This city, bells and whistles jangling, serenades his way
against the light and he, dodging death, taunts it like acid rain
or the whomp of the ball, and sidles onto the asphalt court,

making the steal from stalky boys now haphazardly grown.
He fakes in his child's clothes, put on in darkness, quickly torn,

a stitch in the gash of plummy skin, proud flesh swelling waywardly.

And child, knowing scant of night beyond its unctuous charms,
will run and run against the light, seeking some delirious sign.

Let no fool or hired gun and let no winking of the moon
shroud a child stumbling toward prime-- so easily blown away--
no bells toll out dirge of blade severing soul from bone.


Author Bio:
Carol Alexander's poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Bluestem, Canary, The Commonline, Chiron Review, Earthspeak, Eunoia Review, Ilya's Honey, Mobius, Northwind Magazine, Numinous, Red Fez, Red River Review, OVS, Poetrybay, Poetry Quarterly, The New Verse News, and Sugar Mule. Her work has also been published in the anthologies Broken Circles, Joy Interrupted, The Storm is Coming, Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors, and Surrounded: Living with Islands.

Alexander was the Poetry Finalist in the Warriors Alliance Poetry Competition for "Rewind" and received Honorable Mention in an NPR poetry contest judged by Tracy K. Smith for "Port Arthur Girl." Her poem "The Penalty" was nominated for a 2013 Pushcart Prize. Alexander's first chapbook, Bridal Veil Falls, is published by Flutter Press (March, 2013).

Woman fights with people. Man
gossips (they do gossip, appear to) over uprisings in rotten
topography, while woman discusses (they do discuss, not
appear to, actually adhere to) rotten bones chemically-mixed
with sour peels somewhere in the rubbish mix. “That’s it,”
they all round up at the end; or

when they cannot round up the number to the exact digit
required by, like their spouse or their boss (why not
children if they have?), and they think

“that’s it—” what they mean is

not the end or the number but (perhaps, certainly to an extent)
a fight of the in-between. A much-aspired pause to signal the least
enthusiasm, which has the minimal ability to last; In between

is a clear demarcation. Difference speaks louder than
silence. “Listen,” continues man, “monkeys like us hardly
get the digit right as long as we do not misplace the order of
numbers.” Woman says, “Hey,” then with a twisted

angle of something, that should be lips or teeth, or the creased
dent between the lips and teeth, “that hits the deepest core
of the seem-to-be most frivolous but the most matter-of-fact
sophistication--

I don’t even want to see a cockroach’s antennae no matter
how less millimetre it appears. I mix up two with three”--
(does she?) She still has to flatten away the two sided

linen-cones rounded up after last night’s on-bed fight. No iron
should be used, she thinks—“Iron belongs to man, I have
my own hands—two plus ten.”


Author Bio:
Belle Ling is a university graduate from the University of Hong Kong, and has completed a Master of Creative Writing from the University of Sydney. She has a special interest in writing poetry. Her favorite novelist is Haruki Murakami, and her beloved poems are those which can capture insightful images with in-depth philosophical meanings.

She cracks her bones like a fire
spits marigold embers
as her lips decay
her molars in an assembly line
gnawing the wood
like a bone.

Author Bio:
Silvana Alfonso is a writer and moonlighter from New Jersey. She has been published in Rivercraft, The Susquehanna Review and Jackson Hole Review.

today, I decided to write
with brush and ink
my name in Vietnamese
Chúc Mỹ Tuệ
the one on my birth certificate
with all of its beautiful accents
lightning above the “u”
ocean wave above the “y”
mountain top above
and reflection of moon
below the “e”
today, I made four small
marks and took back
my native language

Author Bio:
Teresa Mei Chuc was born in Saigon, Vietnam and immigrated to the U.S. under political asylum with her mother and brother shortly after the Vietnam War. Teresa earned a Masters in Fine Arts in Creative Writing (poetry) from Goddard College in Plainfield, Vermont. She is the author of Red Thread: Poems (2012).

I’d spend hours jumping from one stack of carpets to the next. I’d leap from the six by nines to the ten by eights and then over to the twelve by tens. At the end of the day, my knees would be bright red from rubbing against the scratchy camel hair fringes. I’d play hopscotch in the large black octagons in the Afghan rugs, roar at the awkward lions in the Persian rugs, count the stars in the Turkish kilims, and make chirping sounds at the birds in the branches of the tree of life carpets. The diamond patterns and zigzags woven in the Gabbehs provided perfect tracks for my glass marbles. Smack, smack, smack they went as they rolled off the edge of the stacks and hit the red painted cement floor. Soon a customer would come in and dad would get down on his knees and begin flipping over the corner of one of the piles, describing each piece as he went along. This one here is a Shiraz, and this a Tabriz, over here, this is a Baluch, and this beauty is an Isfahan. I’d continue jumping along as he showed off his merchandise. Soon he’d head over to his glass-topped desk and sit down with the client. He’d take out a pouch of Top tobacco, roll himself a cigarette, and begin telling stories of his travels throughout the Middle East. All the while, I’d be jumping from stack to stack, chirping and roaring, and flapping my arms about as if they were wings, flying through the air, inhaling the heavy smell of mothballs and wool.

Author Bio:
Mira Martin-Parker is completing an MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in various publications, including the Istanbul Literary Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Mythium, and Zyzzyva.

Runners crowd
road to race,
toes push off-
Family, friends

cheer on
as clouds hang
in city...Cold
Spring Day

exploding

heart of city
Back Bay breaks
THE MARATHON
at finish line
two Blasts
Shock
limbs fly
off, running
chaos, racing
to aid, scrambling
lost walking
away

Only backpacks,
hundreds left
on sidewalks
now empty.

(April 15, 2013)
"3 killed, 130 hurt at finish line; area locked down"

Author Bio:
Denise Mostacci Sklar began her life in the arts as dancer and has recently had the good fortune to discover writing as another way to move through life. She particularity enjoys the stillness...waiting for words to make an entrance. Some of the journals her work can be found include: Dark Lady Poetry, Wilderness House Literary Review, MFT- The Valley Review, BRICKrhetoric, Haunted Waters Press, Emerge Literary Journal, and Foliate Oak Literary Magazine.