I miss the birds in winter

E.M. Anderson, Issue 05

not the way you miss
a name on a gravestone
with an ache in your breast

but the way you miss your mother
when you live states apart:
it’s when you see her at Christmas and say
I missed you
that you know it’s true.

I don’t realize until spring
when they return—
      the red-winged blackbirds
the chicory in the ditches
      the buds on the lilac bush
      beside my garage
it’s the way I missed
      all the splintered pieces of myself
when I wore a wedding band.

I chinked the gaps in
with mud and slush and snow,
daubed over everything
       with fir trees
and colored lights
and train rides to Virginia

you don’t realize things are missing
you don’t know the earth is sleeping

until
      the first blackbird
wakes you up
      and trills his first spring song.

IN SKOGSKYRKOGÅRDEN

Jordan Makant, iIssue 04

I see an old Swedish woman on her knees
by a gravestone. There is a small towel draped
over her left shoulder. At her left side there is a bucket.
In the bucket there is soapy water and a brush. I watch her
take the brush and scrub, slowly at first, then harder
and faster, harder and faster. She sees me watching her.
I nod. She nods in return. I smile slightly. She does not smile
in return. I imagine asking her why she cleans the gravestone.
I imagine asking her if she is okay, knowing her efforts are
in vain – no matter how hard she scrubs, no matter how well
she cleans, no matter how often she visits, what lies buried still
decomposes, becomes one with the earth; even the gravestone
will one day surrender to the dirt. I say nothing.
Later, I go back. She is gone. I look at the scrubbed stone,
read what is written there. I begin to talk to the dirt. I say,
I found a flower earlier. I brought it for you. Here.
I place the flower in the soil. I imagine an old woman smiling.

Honey and Venom

Jennifer Crow, Issue 03

Honey, you whisper, as though I’m dressed in it
breasts and thighs, as though
a slow fountain trickles through me
and licks at my lips. How sweet
of you to pretend not to notice
my crown of bees, and the hum
of rage that has settled on my shoulders,
a mantling of busy destruction.
Kiss me with your envenomed lips,
let your fang pierce the tender skin
of my belly, like a magician
turning something soft
into flying shards of glass. Honey,
you whisper, and I shatter
into queen and swarm, ready to die
for vengeance, for the hive.

Productive

Masha Zhdanova, Issue 01

Becoming

Savannah Stoehr, Issue 03

My skin was a suit several sizes too small.
I’ve got stretch marks on my hips, arms, thighs, chest—
all the places my body couldn’t quite hold me in.
I will not tell my twelve-year-old self
just how long it will take
for her body to feel like home;
how many loves, labors, losses,
how many scars, chosen and not,
how many modifications this vessel will undergo
before it’s beaten into a shape she can withstand.
I will not tell her how many years she will spend
haunting her own house,
scrabbling at its walls for a foothold.

Sometimes, I think I was yanked from the world
before I ever got to set foot in it.
Sometimes, I think my life thus far has been one long DMT trip
with me standing on the threshold, staring out,
imagining what it would be like to be.

I will not tell my twelve-year-old self
how long she will stay planted in that doorway.

I’ll tell her this:
the sun rises
regardless of whether you believe in it.
You were born in the dark, and you think it’s all you know,
but you’re missing something.
You were born in the dark, and you fear the break of day—
you fear it will break you; you fear it won’t,
but in the end, you will only be grateful
and awed
when the light finally touches your skin.
When the dawn finds your stretch marks,
you will find yourself in love.
You will find yourself in a house,
weathered, scarred,
lived-in, ancient, and still there.
All at once, you will be,
as though that last forgotten switch finally flipped—
the circuit will close, the current will come,
and you will not wish to be anywhere else,
because you have built a home
of your own flesh and bone,
and you missed something:
you’re missing nothing.

I will not tell my twelve-year-old self
of the turbulent days ahead.
She already knows, and what she doesn’t
she’ll weather nonetheless.

I’ll tell her this:
Such a strange feeling,
the sudden rushing tide
of corporeality overtaking you.
You won’t know you’re a ghost
until you’re shocked back into life.