Poetry by Britny Cordera

BY BRITNY CORDERA

Revelations

Beside your distance, the sound of rainbow

trout stilled in a river warmer

than the bag & tent we are sleeping in,

the current like birdsong we’ll never

put a name to that might begin to ascribe

a secret note for the end of this world

& how it will happen: a continent on fire

begets the floods begets the drought

begets the tornadoes begets the locusts

begets a branding iron burning our lungs,

these titans. Want to say something:

great horned owls duetting

to each other from one stolen nest

to another, the snore of the tent

dwellers next door, & what of yours;

a deep breathing that skips over

saliva, like the flat-stone rocks

we tossed in that tepid current

to watch jounce across the water’s surface

& the remainders of autumn––

white oak smolders gold in the fire

we could have waited a little longer to burn out.

Sagittarius Season

Since the Earth is having fever dreams this year

before her long sleep, the pin oak leaves

heavy with gold have not fallen yet

and the falcon’s scream reverberates

to cleanse the Earth’s body before burial.

Here in a small town called Huntington,

the first sight of autumn is never lost

to the hunters eager to wear their camouflage

of summer’s crisp detritus. The towering pale

men are never hunted in this shrinking town

where red-tailed hawks hook themselves

to crackling electric poles. One of the men

stops at a gas station before going into the forest, finds

exotic game to mess around with; a woman with antlers,

a nest of black-widows trailing from her hair,
 

northern copperheads springing from the crown of her head

and their ratty remains, hollow bones for tight coils,

a true daughter of Horned Serpent and Cernunnos,

who just walked into a Circle K to buy hiking snacks.

The dark woman who is only seen in the shadow

of fall is spotted; a staredown with the hunter

has her paralyzed in line as he stands behind her.

He ushers her towards the line to go first

looking but barely touching the ruin on her head

with his breath. She thinks he’s going to say

wow, amazing hair to which she’ll reply in stutter

thanks, I grew it myself, but this time it doesn’t happen.

Cordera is a two-year Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. She is a proud Black writer and Louisiana Creole poet, descending from African, Indigenous, and French/Spanish ancestors. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Rhino, Xavier Review, and Auburn Avenue. Currently, Cordera is an MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale and poetry editor for The New Southern Fugitives.

Poetry by Lauren Davis

BY LAUREN DAVIS

Little Bean

The doctor tells me he found—

in my brain—something. Nothing

to do, but give it a name. Little bean.

Sparrow’s eye. Lost pearl. It is mine.

I made it. Appleseed, my pale bead.

When I am still enough, it sings.

Brain Growth Undiagnosed in the Month of July

Aberration, you will either be

my everything or my nothing.

Once a man I loved raised his fist to me.

He stood close enough I could

smell him. In that moment I felt

a thing close to unknown.

If you grow, my sweet pea,

you will cut the stream.

Or you might disappear like

dew. I could love you either way.

Today, men set off fireworks

because when this country left

its mother, we were happy.

I think you are maybe a gift,

like when noon creeps in

where there’s been always

winter light. I see everything

now. I see the missed moment

I might have held my palms

to the grass. They call

this prayer. Even in the day

I hear a pop like gunshots

but it’s just children playing

with fire. Some say it’s wasteful

to burn sparklers in the sun

but this is not the type of person

I keep in my life. I keep in my life

you—visitor long overdue.

Little wick, lit.

Lauren Davis is the author of Home Beneath the Church, forthcoming from Fernwood Press, and the chapbook Each Wild Thing’s Consent, published by Poetry Wolf Press. She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars, and she teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe and Imprint Books. She is a former Editor in Residence at The Puritan’s Town Crier and has been awarded a residency at Hypatia-in-the-Woods. Her work has appeared in over fifty literary publications and anthologies including Prairie Schooner, Spillway, Poet Lore, Ibbetson Street, Ninth Letter and elsewhere.

Poetry by Andi Talarico

BY ANDI TALARICO

After Sacrifice

Catholics believe in magic, which is to say 

Transubstantiation, which is really to say sleight 

of hand, which is to say we

Believe a miracle occurs each time the holy man, ordained, 

offers the water and the wine,

Just like that, from up their robes, they

Conjure the body, conjure the blood.

It is pivotal, the difference, the others who see mass as metaphor.

They are just pretending. It is enough to worship the idea.

But not us, see, watch the hands, use your nail,

scratch Papal and find pagan, 

boiling, just beneath,

Denied and demoted like a bastard born son.

But see how far we’ve come, 

Note we no longer need the offering 

of your firstborn to the fire

Don’t have to hurl your kin into the maw of a pit

Don’t have to cut from the finest of your harvest

Don’t have to let go your plumpest sow.

Here, we’re evolved now, humane, now, let 

this ministered man, 

holy enough to be above you,

let him make his magic happen, 

an alchemy of spirit to body

A glamour for the blind

We’ve made it for you.

A glamour so profound

Wreathed in the smoke of incense

Kept behind the altar

Beyond the pale

Between masses, babies, offered up.

We cry, bring us your youngest, your softest, 

all the sons and daughters of Abraham,

And here is the lamb, and here is the slaughter,

The hunger too great, the appetite laid bare.

The sin of lust made greater by the sin of

Looking-away, the sin of never-asking,

The sin of teaching our young that

Sacrifice is the greatest name for love

Because after all, after all,

This is my body, which is given up for you.

Andi Talarico is a Brooklyn-based writer, reader, and witch. She’s the former host of At the Inkwell NYC, an international reading series. She's taught poetry in classrooms as a rostered artist, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, and her work has been featured in Luna Luna magazine, The Poetry Project, Yes Poetry, Ritual Poetica, and more. Her work has also been published by PaperKite Press and SwanDive Publishing. When she’s not working with stationery company Baronfig, you can find her dishing on astrology and culture on her podcast Astrolushes, co-hosted with Lisa Marie Basile.

Summer Poem: Court Castaños

Magic Breathing

BY COURT CASTAÑOS

We didn’t have fireflies

flickering summer’s arrival song

in old jam and jelly jars, and I wish

I’d seen them rise from the tall grass

mistaken them for sprites, magic

breathing. We were washed

in the orange glow of the street

lights higher than we could ever imagine

climbing with our rough hands and

thick, summer feet. By June

you could crack an egg on the searing

tar of your road and watch it blossom

sunny side up until the slap

of burnt yolk sent you running

to the cool relief under

the maple tree, where the sun

couldn’t find you and the light

was mashed to cool green

like grass that’s been bruised

and tugged loose by dancing feet

in holy sprinkler water.

As a kid I could chant all

the priest’s calls and responses, sign

the cross over my small body and

say Grace five-times-fast,

but in the young nucleus of my soul

I knew the real power was in the count

to thirty on a moonless night while the

street exhales it’s last fiery breath.

My body in flight to the cavern

in the arms of my orange tree

where my heart would howl

in ecstasy as I praised the dim glow

of the street lights and the holy

sanctity of bare feet running

in a pack of wild kids, playing

hide and seek in the dark.

Donate: The poet requests that donations be sent to RAICE’s LEAF Fund. The LEAF fund ensures that children coming to this country can receive quality legal representation both in detention centers and once they are released. In 2018, our specially-trained team provided ongoing legal counsel to 400 children, and more than 4,500 children received training to help them understand their rights here in the United States. You can donate via this link.

Court Castaños has work currently published in The Nasiona and the San Joaquin Review. New poems forthcoming in Boudin, of The McNeese Review. Castaños grew up adventuring along the Kings River in the San Joaquin Valley and now resides in Santa Cruz, California.

Journaling The Body: Prompts for Chronic Illness

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

I live with #ankylosingspondylitis, so I live with daily pain and immobility. I’m also a patient advocate, so I realize how much of an emotional toll managing chronic illness — including dynamic disabilities, inflammatory diseases, or mental health issues — can take. Here are some of the journal prompts based I’ve been using in my journaling practice. I want you to know that you’re not alone.

There are SO many studies in clinical journals proving the beneficial psychological and even physiological effects of expressive writing. I’ve known writing has the capacity to change us since…forever, but science does offer some explanation. Our bodies change when we make space for our feelings.

When we hold our feelings in, it can devastate our bodies (cortisol build-up, for one, is a real issue) and our psyches. It is especially isolating to live with a chronic illness; suffering day to day without people truly understanding can take a toll on you. This can cause greater anxiety and stress which cyclically leads back into pain and worsening health. Your journal is a place for your truth. Take advantage of it. Let the shadows out and embrace joy, as well. It is not a solution nor a cure, but it is its own type of medicine.

Think of writing as one powerful tool in your self-care arsenal. It’s not a quick fix. It’s not a miracle — but it holds a mirror up to who we are, and can help us find autonomy in the experience. Follow my transformative writing page at RITUAL POETICA.