She fell into my lap like an Autumn leaf
this battered femininity 

because my hands have embraced
and enable truth

I paused to pick up her sharp, fragileness
and regarded her delicately

From what I gathered,
something major is missing

I couldn’t put my fingers on it
but she is not all there



Author Bio:
Latorial Faison is an African American poet and writer who has authored six books. She studied English at the University of Virginia and Virginia Tech. Faison has been published widely in the US and abroad. She is an Assistant Professor of English in Seoul, Korea. www.latorialfaison.com 

Perhaps by a quirk of hormonal imbalance
or a reckless moment of indecision,
she’s neither a man nor a woman.

In our Victoria’s Secret world
she’s a nightmare—heavy brow,
ample breasts, and paw-like hands.

With these hands, she builds ship models
with popsicle sticks, tying
intricate knots, fully-rigged sails.

She explains it takes months to finish
a ship, paint and lacquer it, making sure
all the riggings are exactly right.

Suddenly her fingers are nimble and lithe.
It isn’t a man or woman I see
but the mainsail taut in a steady wind. 

First published in Slipstream, 2004 and in author’s book, Down to the Quick (Plain View Press, 2009)

Author Bio:
Nancy Scott is the managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets, the journal of the U.S.1 Poets’ Cooperative in New Jersey. She is the author of five books of poetry: Down to the Quick (Plain View Press, 2007), One Stands Guard, One Sleeps (Plain View Press, 2009), A Siege of Raptors (Finishing Line Press, 2010), Detours & Diversions (Main Street Rag, 2011), and On Location (March Street Press, 2011). Her poetry has appeared in more than 100 different journals, most recently in Slant, Journal of New Jersey Poets, Raven Chronicles, The Copperfield Review and Verse Wisconsin. She began writing poetry as a way to record the stories she had heard during more than 35 years as a caseworker for the State of New Jersey and an advocate in the non-profit sector for abused and neglected children and for homeless families. She is also an adoptive parent and a former foster parent. www.nancyscott.net

The ocean – Pacific – is still here
six blocks below.  We sleep and wake

under a generous sky, mostly temperate.
The sound of planes has a cadence

barely heard, not like the sudden
shrill of the phone.  We’re spared the growl

of killer drones while the innocent
of northern Mali have nothing but

their eyes to cry with.  Around my complicit
throat I wear a necklace, pale, tiny beads

once strung by a devoted artisan
in Mali.  How art has been betrayed!

Islamists hack the hands that might create,
in the name of Sharia law, rights

proclaimed by men, their ears attuned

to what pretends to be the Holy Writ.


Author Bio:
Peggy Aylsworth's poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals throughout the U.S. and abroad, including Poetry Salzburg Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, The MacGuffin. Her work was nominated for the 2012 Pushcart Prize by The Medulla Review.

I am a tent
No warm breasts do I have
no curvy shape
No beautiful arms, no black eyelashes
No alluring smell
I am a tent
moving around slowly
yet gracefully
I can see but not be seen
I can watch life, be a wise woman
but not show my eyes, my tears, my laughter,
my rosy cheeks

I used my hair, my skin as a canvas to pin my enchantment, while still practicing self-imprisonment.
The tattoo hurt pretty good but proved my ownership. It’s just hair but people thought I’d gone crazy - the lowlights and highlights black and blond. I want self-determination but was taught to surrender.
Finding me was no easy feat; I was buried deep. There was too much you and too little me - I’d vanished under our marriage contract’s coercion.
I needed to breathe a little, but there was nothing you wouldn’t belittle. There was nothing left but screaming loneliness and the desire to feel life’s pleasure, maybe a touch on my skin.
I heard music, a sweet voice promising more than endless days passing by while sitting at the kitchen table. Desire to change my universe was something that I failed to do except it’s not too late to use my inner voice, to speak up for times I remained silent.
I started to dance by myself, my own song at first leading hesitant steps in studded Steve Madden boots. I am all over creation chasing greater denotation. I am free to be me and strong now too, but I'll never feel contempt like you.
My heart’s filled with inherent sorrow, 16 squandered years, but there’s always tomorrow.
Finding me was no easy task but I am satisfied that I get to decide.


Author Bio:
Beni lives in Missouri where her beloved pets and IT work dominate most of her life. She completed her first Doctoral course in Business Administration Computer and Information Security just to prove she could. Traveling all across Europe and Canada has been an eye-opening educational experience; never missing a chance to emerge herself and learn about diverse cultures. Beni believes that most people will either love you or hate you; but only the indifferent ones need worrying about. Conversation and writing are her true passion. Her website URL is: [www.beniblue.net]    

Where that gulmohar tree bends over the lake, the neighbourhood
Died in the mouth of a child as she swallowed the water draining
Into her body- drowning- sudden like a quake but its slow-sinking
Remained in the landscape and suddenly one day the neighbourhood
Had died and as every monsoon someone was ringing bells for suicide day
But this year the rains weren’t wet and by then the bougainvillea lawn
Had dried over the dead of Jamuna’s rusted leg still embedded in her shoe
The cracking tunes in the subway underground enclosed Amba; she became
A ring in the eclipse, like a drop of gold in the river, defying sieves
But the day the neighbourhood started dying was
When Antara changed the dress in her body.
She put on her orange skirt that the sun had slept in
Pulled up her red stockings up to the heart and
Draped a long black scarf around her stemmed neck
She walked out of the fire with its colours and
Flung her fire at the frigid neighbourhood
That day was the local suicide day and the Aagneys were there
Smelling death that had dressed up like a woman
That day the men by the road in their usual card game
All went silent at the same time and turned around
To look at their other image etched in water
In the landscape where
The yellowed trees bulged with centuries of women’s sweat
And it rained the drowned child’s tears on the thatched roofs
Women licking their fingers stepped out of kitchen windows
The dry flesh from her colored lips flew into the wind
And landed on the old landlady’s plate just as she
Scooped a spoonful of meat for her grand daughter
The poor child didn’t whimper like the last time she saw
Her mother burn in the window; she picked up the flesh and dressed
Her buried bones; then death was already walking out of match boxes
A cat crouching stealthily in the backyard over broken eggs
Wailed and emerged into her purring while
The dressed woman- naked- was walking the neighbourhood
In strides of burning sounds that left her once asphyxiated larynx


Author Bio:
Mohineet Kaur Boparai (b. 1985) has published three books of poetry, Poems That Never Were(2007), Windows to the Ocean(2012) and Lives of My Love(2012). Her poetry also features in the anthology "Dance of the Peacock", amongst the finest Indian poets. She is teaching English at the Panjab University Constituent College, Nihalsinghwala. She is 27 and lives at Moga, India. Blog/ Website: http://sipping-sunshine.blogspot.in/