Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Two Poems by Lorelei Bacht Cheriton Bishop Hospital, 3 a.m. Convalescent is another word for cichlid, another word for blood parrot, a word for What was I thinking? We all remember the moment before we jumped. We all wonder how different our lives would be now if we hadn’t. If we had stopped, if we had called our mother, our brother, if we had had a brother, a mother who cared, if we had ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   New York in Spring by Jes Burke New York in Spring is like a tween waking up from a deep sleep in a feather bed, stretching and groaning before calling all their friends. New York in spring is like a Sunday morning, bright blue, nothing planned, and the smell of good coffee. New York in spring is like the last day of classes, shedding study-weary eyes for glimmering smiles, quick hugs and laughter. It’s the doors on the ice ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   A Second Pandemic Easter by Megan Lloyd Joiner A Second Pandemic Easter The baby, who was not here last year, smiles her delight and points out the window, the same one I sat outside at Christmas when I could not taste my coffee. I drank it anyway, for warmth and normalcy, my numb fingers wrapped around the mug. My mother’s puffy coat melted into the shape of the heater coils. This morning, too, ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Two Poems by Joan Mazza Best Valentine is a day with power, heat, and anything I want to eat. The word this year is self-care, time to savor solitude and remember to revel in gratitude for all the comforts of modern life like generators and desserts during ice storms. No need to leave the house. Today’s the day for red foods to celebrate a sweetheart Sunday, though I’m alone with cats: minestrone soup, ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   An Unexplained Head Twitch by Eric Roller An Unexplained Head Twitch Someone is always watching: from behind a restaurant menu or dark sunglasses at a pool’s edge; from a rack of discounted clothes—from behind hands to mouths that land cheap punch lines: Hey, I want to know what makes you tic. The aspersions are blended potions infused with glances: kooky, loco, or screwy mixed with nuts, crackpot, or bananas. Wacky, mental, or schizo with fruitcake, out to lunch, and crazy as a loon. A year ago, ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Two Poems by Dameien Nathaniel It The words leave your mouth with such nonchalance— I almost don’t hear the bigotry But I’ve been trained to hear slurs clear as day The nurse calls my name— I already didn’t want to be here— I stand from my seat Only to hear a voice from across the waiting room “It is in the bathroom It will be out soon” Spiraling down I melt into nothing as ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Two Poems by Donny Winter Modern Day Sarcophagus Today, I sent Dr. Frankenstein a sign in the cloud columns rising from each suburban chimney. The wisps were carried by a polar updraft until my message was etched across the crisp winter blue, saying: “Don’t worry, I’ve sewn my mouth shut, wrapped myself in a name-brand shroud, and rolled the stone in front of my tomb for you.” As each spilled chemical slows ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Progress by Mantz Yorke Progress Last year, a wheelchair and sessions of hydrotherapy— the water supporting your crumbling back as you strode, slo-mo, across the pool. These days, no wheelchair. Exercise and calcium pills have strengthened your muscles and bones, but the pain still nags you for co-codamol. A wheeled walker eases the stress on your back, so you’ve stretched your walks “just round the block” to half a mile and the local shops. Now you’re taking ...

Poetry Issue #8: Rest & Recovery August 19th, 2021 August 19th, 2021   Two Poems by Aremu Adams Adebisi aubade to windbreak my----brother-------broke his arm at the---elbow-----when he was little, his left arm now shorter than his right. at 21, he trudges, his arm---right-angled--to his body, like a knife leading the slaughter. the--breakage--confounds me: the bond of tissues with bones, the ire of flesh like a gauntlet. i kiss what is left of the knots, i smell the tangles, the twists, the wrenches, as if to exorcise; &--i wonder what ...