Summer 2009
Abha Iyengar
Alison Eastley
Barton Smock
Bridget Gage-Dixon
Charles Ries
Cheryl Snell
Daniel Crocker
David Jordan
David Lawrence
Dennis Mahagin
Doug Ramspeck
Henry Louis Shifrin
John Sweet
Kathryn Jacobs
Lois P. Jones
Margaret Babbott
Mather Schneider
Richard Lighthouse
Roger Pfingston
Roy Lewis
Simon Perchik
Tim Kahl
Tony Leuzzi
Julie Steiner
Don Shaeffer
Steiner Interview
by Alex Nodopaka
Jennifer VanBuren
Jai Britton
Alex Nodopaka
Patrick Carrington
Mannequin Envy in memory of poet and artist Douglas Gamrath
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Lois P. Jones
Summer 2009
Triptych in Honor of J. Michael Walker’s Bodies Mapping Time
1. Exposed
I am not the swells that run the edge
of a dove’s spine--not the dried twigs
in this bird’s gullet that did not bear fruit.
You didn’t ask if or why and I am grateful.
Grateful for the light that shelters,
for the deep fuchsia of bougainvillea
in your garden that protects me
from the world.
I am not this body.
Not a mallard to be brought down
with buckshot.
I am a hammer on the nail,
the woodpecker who drills down
into sap looking for the right word.
I let you see me naked
but clothes are nothing
to a bird. It’s the glint in an eye
foraging for generous seeds.
You slice the white rectangle of light
with the edge of your lens.
Who but you to open this shutter,
release a wing.
2. Why the Mannequin Envies Me
I listen to the story of your body.
This flesh you could not tamp down
in time for the date,
the undressed plate of figs
you laid open on your lover's bed.
I desire each wrinkle, these folds
that find your face, undulating time—
sacred experience. I covet fingers
that find the ridge
of a scar. A memory of the knife
and table. That which kept you alive—
sewed your limbs back to fleshly doll.
Envy the pull of breasts that carry
the mother load, a bud of a belly—
the possibility of being
grateful, able to slip out of more
than silks or plaids. To feel the earth
ooze between my toes. And for once
close these spangled eyes to dream.
I will never manifest as something real,
though you see me through the glass
of this shop-keeper's window,
faux Jesus of the fashion world.
I want to pull the pegs
from my palms and feet, step down
from this steel rod and into your skin.
Feel that lightness of bone. Press my lips
into your yield.
3. Where did the full moon leave its sack of flour tonight?
Title from Pablo Neruda’s “Book of Questions”
It was a day sheltered by the weeping fig.
Gerda’s dog sleepy below the bench
in Michael’s garden. Our bellies full
of ambrosia, of almond milk and tamales
freshly offered. Our bowls empty
of shame—laughter spilling over the lip
of the pond. Each recognizing herself
in the other. No longer the lone field.
We’d shed our clothes to taste our own fruit.
To become unafraid of Eve’s gifts.
Each our own bounty—tender skins of grape,
golden mango, berries tart and sweet.
A new garden and the spirit of its gardener
incapable of judgment, who loves
as a farmer loves a root. The afternoon
scattering its seed—brave women,
who bared their skins of motherhood,
of accidents and extravagance—
the lies of too much or too little. Women
of grace and light whose flour poured free,
unsifted as stars.
| Lois believes in all manner of flying and can claim skydiving and hot air ballooning as her introduction to highfalutin. When she isn’t dreaming of dirigibles, she makes herself useful as co-founder of Word Walker Press, co-producer of Moonday’s monthly poetry reading in Pacific Palisades, California with Alice Pero and guest host of 90.7 KPFK’s Poet’s Cafe. She is the Associate Poetry Editor of Kyoto Journal. Her work has been published in Rose & Thorn, The California Quarterly, Kyoto Journal, Prism Review and other print and on-line journals in the U.S. and abroad. New poems forthcoming in Arsenic Lobster and Goldfish Press. |
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Don Shaeffer "Liz"
We accept submissions all year long, however, we read them only during the month before publication, so please do not get upset if you do not hear from us right away.
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