Portrait
Tess Dudek
The whole room dimmed in the shock
of that beam on your shoulder,
violet the moon couldn't make alone.
Your blood sowed the color there,
your red blood,
flowing the lines of your form
with heatin the cool dark,
radiant warmth.
Still, the triangle by your collarbone
trilled the loudest,
and foolish me,
I reached to feel the heat
and my clumsy shadow
caused an eclipse.
How can a notch of light break my back,
when it seemed so fragile there--
like the velvet of a shedding stag,
quivering in the wind,
had I peeled it back,
I would have seen the white bone,
raw and bare.
Ashley
Blair Apgar
In the mornings when my sister thought
I was still asleep, she would lather up
a thick layer of yellow liquid soap
and run her hands under the scalding tap.
When she was done, she scrutinized
the lines of her palms and every nail bed
as if she meant to find something new.
Each and every time,
She found nothing.
Nights she dreampt of broken teeth
that fell out as she spoke. Like chewing
glass they shredded the pink of her gums.
In the morning she'd wake
with a grain of sand between her lips
and anxiously check herself for cracks.
Each and every time,
She found nothing.
Once or twice a month she scribbled
erratic letters across folded and stained
loose-leaf, or on the backs of old bills asking
to be paid. The last one I recieved was unsigned;
each corner was dog-eared or curled.
In the mornings when I check the mail,
I look for a Montana postmark.
Each and every time,
I find nothing.
Cold Plants, an excerpt
Kaitlyn Brescia
Rose would die soon. She knew. At eighty-two she couldn't have much longer to live. She traced the lines on her wrinkled hands. Felt the thin softness of her skin. Her hands were shrunken. Deflated. She drew shapes between the brown spots that peppered her frail arms.
She hoped that it would be in her sleep. Lying down on her bed, wrapped in her favorite quilt. She would close her eyes, let the weight of her eyelids press shut around her, shroud her in darkness. And then she would sleep. Sleep and never wake up.
It was the waking up that scared her. Dying wouldn't be so bad. But waking up somewhere else, ripped from the comfort of her quilt.
Rose pinched her skin, pressing her nails into the flesh between her fingers. She could feel the sting, and it felt good. She pinched harder. When she couldn't stand the pinch anymore, she stopped and looked out the window. She was sitting in her blue plaid armchair. The rest of the living room furniture was set in a comfortable circle, but her chair faced away, looking out toward the window. Her feet were swallowed in thick woolen socks that settled around her spindly ankles. Her bathrobe was wrapped around her body, hiding the flowered pajamas that she refused to throw away, despite the visible wear.
So, she sat. Her hips settling into the fluff of the chair, her legs hanging, motionless, to the floor, her arms resting in her lap. White hair was pinned in a loose bun at the back of her head. Wisps of it hung down near her eyes. Rose reached out to touch the window, pressing her fingers to the glass. She spread her palm out flat against the cool surface, and held it there until her arm fell, tired, back into her lap.
She heard the doorbell ring, and the pound of feet on the welcome mat.
"Ma? I'm here."
It was Lindsey. Rose heard her walk through the kitchen to the back of the house where she sat, quiet, looking out the window.
"See anything interesting?" Lindsey came closer.
"I took my pills. The empty case is by the sink."
"Looks like your plants are a little cold." A mix of brown and green leaves hung low around the ground outside the window. The frost had ruined them.
"They're dead."
"Ya, well it's cold outside. I'm surprised they lasted this long."
[...]