 Garden, by Gustav Klimt (Austria) 1907 Ranko Dad still tends to his flowerbeds with the care and attention he puts into his chess, Mom gone all these years. His sunflowers, glowing faces, absorb the fading sun. My visit will surprise him. I wander through his quiet Saturday night kitchen. Remnants of Istrian Yoda, his Zagreb childhood’s favourite stew, smoky and sauerkraut-fragrant, in his one big lonely pot. A special occasion that he’s celebrating? Sunflower flaming orange in a vase on his table set for two. Disarray, napkins tossed aside. Poppy seed rolls, slices plump and moist, untouched. Coffee cups, one with dregs of his sharp, dark coffee, its edge alight with lipstick vibrantly red. Another guest I must meet. “Dad?” I follow his mumbling and pass his open bedroom door. “Dad!” I gasp. My old father, his tanned and wrinkled face kisses the woman’s wilted-flower breasts. “Ranko,” she whispers, holding him close and tender as though his body is delicate and rare. Fran Turner This story first appeared at Love in the Time of Covid. Fran Turner grew up on a farm in the southernmost part of Canada, but Toronto, where she's lived most of her life, is the place that's home. She was a nurse, a shiatsu therapist, and worked on cancer programs. For decades her heart was on the Aikido mat, training and teaching at her own dojo. Now she enjoys working on flash fiction. She’s had stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Dodging the Rain, and Adelaide Review.
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 Lavacourt Under Snow, by Claude Monet (France) 1878-1881 Lavacourt Under Snow There were two stone buildings with closed shutters and several bare trees. There was thick, untouched snow on the ground and in the background a snow-covered hillside. The sky was a soft white. He could almost feel the chillness numbing his face, the muted silence ringing in his ears. There was just one thing that, in his undisclosed loneliness, the attendant longed for. A human presence. Monet had neglected that. No solitary figures, as in so many of his Argenteuil paintings, to provide a moment of warmth in the lifeless cold. The attendant could do nothing about it. *** A tall man and a lady entered the gallery, both smartly dressed, on a late lunch most likely. The lady wore a dark red coat and knee length brown boots that clicked softly on the laminate flooring. She studied each painting they came to, a serious expression on her face. The man, who was looking down at his phone rather than at any of the artwork, was obliged to keep stopping to let her catch up. He seemed annoyed by it. The lady stopped in front of Lavacourt Under Snow. ‘I love this one.’ ‘It’s my favourite, too.’ They both turned and the man glared down at the attendant. He saw that she was pondering the attendant with a faint smile. Slipping his phone smoothly into the inside pocket of his coat, he spoke in a voice that boomed around the gallery. ‘I did a History of Art degree.’ ‘Did you? I never knew,’ said the lady. ‘Moved to law after the first year. No money in art. No offence.’ The attendant felt an overwhelming desire to pick up his chair and swing it as hard as he could into the man’s artless and ignorant mouth. Instead, he said politely, ‘Not much money, no.’ ‘You get to see these paintings every day,’ said the lady, glancing up at the man, her face serious again. ‘It can’t be so bad.’ He nodded. ‘I get a lot of satisfaction from it, yes.’ The faint smile returned momentarily but the man gave a derisive snort and began to walk away. The lady said something to him and he responded sharply. She blushed and the attendant saw her lips tighten into a thin, angry line. The couple moved on to the next gallery and the attendant went to his chair. After a short while, the lady reappeared, alone. There was no one else in the gallery. ‘I just wanted one more look,’ she said in a quiet, determined voice, standing in front of the Monet. ‘Of course.’ ‘It’s just so beautifully captured.’ The attendant stood up. ‘I think it’s to do with the way he’s used different colour tones, along with the white. Like here.’ The lady stepped closer to examine where the attendant was pointing, where the foreground gave way to the hillside. ‘It’s so peaceful and empty. I’d love to go there,’ she said, scrutinising the painting. The attendant turned to her. ‘Yes, you can almost feel the place, can’t you,’ he said. *** The attendant was returned to consciousness by his walkie talkie. He sat up, lightheaded and confused, his energy drained. An elderly lady smiled at him sympathetically. He wondered if he was becoming unwell. He listened to the voices on the walkie talkie. A man at the information desk was searching for someone he’d arrived with earlier but could now no longer find. A woman. A series of negative responses crackled over the airwaves. ‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’ The sudden return of the booming voice made him jump. The tall man loomed over him. ‘She’s not even answering her phone. What’s she playing at?’ His expression was one of disdain, but there was a note of panic in his voice. Some of the other visitors turned to watch. He barely had time to respond before the man had hurried away, the clack of his expensive-looking shoes echoing off the walls and the high ceiling. Then the attendant noticed the Monet painting and an involuntary shiver passed through his whole body. He stepped closer to where it hung on the wall. He was not mistaken. A figure stood near one of the trees. She wore knee-length brown boots and had left footprints in the snow. She had her back to him, facing the hillside. Her red coat stood out against the grey and blue and the white. The attendant felt unable to move. The walkie talkie crackled again. Five minutes to closing time. The last of the day’s visitors moved slowly past him towards the exit. In the solitude of the emptied gallery he continued to stare in amazement. Maybe she’s been there all along, he thought to himself, but he was too familiar with the painting to believe it. Eventually one of the security staff appeared in the archway. The attendant turned off the lights and, in a daze, went to his locker. ‘Look at that, it’s starting to snow,’ said the guard at the front desk, leaning back in his chair and surveying a heavy grey sky outside the window. ‘Strange; the forecast didn’t say anything about snow.’ The attendant did not respond. He frowned deeply and left the building, half walking, half running. From the sky, the flakes were beginning to fall faster and faster. It seemed that there was a red light cutting through the night air. A strong wind suddenly whipped up all around him. He covered his face. When it had passed and he raised his eyes and saw that he was no longer in Trafalgar Square but in the middle of an expanse of snow-covered ground. He felt cold air on his skin. There were two buildings and bare trees. She was standing in the same place. She turned at his approach. ‘It’s the different colour tones that make it beautiful, just like you said.’ She smiled faintly and held out her hand, and he walked through the snow towards her. Andrew Senior Andrew Senior is a writer of short fiction and poetry based in Sheffield, UK. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in various publications including Litro Magazine, The Heartland Review and Flash Fiction Magazine. You can see more of his published work at: https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/  Queequeg, by Warren Lynn (USA) contemporary. Used with permission of the artist. Copyright: Warren Linn 2022. Queequeg You know well how to stare down the abyss, with drill-bit eyes punched open by fate. I see your soul harpooned straight through, colourful with scars and elegant gashes-- your chest tattooed with signs of gods of monsoon and typhoon, deluge and death. One day, Queequeg, you will sink. Your bones will drift in the same silence that fills your eyes the way water will fill them, the way water will hold you. Water: your love of loves, your floating power, your lasting grace. Paul Jaskunas This was first published at Blood and Bourbon. Paul Jaskunas is the author of the novel Hidden (Free Press, 2004), which won the Friends of American Writers Award and has been published widely in Europe. His work has appeared in a variety of periodicals, including The Little Patuxent Review, The Cortland Review, The Windhover, Atticus Review, America, and The Museum of Americana. A recipient of an MFA in Fiction from Cornell University, he teaches literature and writing at the Maryland Institute College of Art, where for the past five years he has edited the art journal Full Bleed. www.jaskunas.com.  Houses of Bones, by Janet Ruth (USA) 2022 Houses of Bones I. Fifteen thousand years ago middle of the Ice Age near what is now Kyiv, Ukraine— houses of bones. Remains of more than one hundred wooly mammoths foundations—rings of mammoth skulls ivory domes—tusks arc to form a roof the walls—pelvic bones, shoulder blades, jaw bones, leg bones the skins that covered them— long gone. Within, what’s left of bonfires— bones burned for fuel bone and ivory tools a mammoth skull painted with red ochre dots and lines a map—inscribed upon a bone. Carrying heavy mammoth bones hunter-gatherers on the vast tundra before history before civilization built homes— now piles of bones scattered studied by archeologists. II. Today in Ukraine houses in rubble arcs of missiles trace the dome of heaven someone tries to redraw a map—erase lines carved in bone bombs ignite new bonfires. Resurrection of a war so cold— a new Ice Age. Whose bones will be carried? What heavy price to rebuild homes now? Who will study these bones? What will they tell us? Janet Ruth Author's note: In 1965, a farmer in Mezhyrich, a village in central Ukraine, dug up the lower jawbone of a mammoth. Excavations over the years revealed four prehistoric huts, constructed of the bones of 149 wooly mammoths. Some large mammoth bones can weigh more than a hundred pounds. This poem first appeared in Oddball. Janet Ruth is a NM ornithologist. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. She has recent poems in Oddball Magazine, Tulip Tree Review, The Ocotillo Review, Sin Fronteras, Spiral Orb and anthologies including Moving Images: poetry inspired by film (Before Your Quiet Eyes Publication, 2021) and New Mexico Remembers 9/11 (Artemesia Publishing, 2020). Her first book,Feathered Dreams: celebrating birds in poems, stories & images (Mercury HeartLink, 2018) was a Finalist for the 2018 NM/AZ Book Awards. https://redstartsandravens.com/janets-poetry/  Working with Meg Pokrass on our many ekphrastic microfiction workshops has been pure magic over the past year. It is such a joy to see stories birthed in our workshops in journals everywhere, and our writers winning awards and prizes. There's a very special chemistry happening here- Meg has such sharp instincts about shaping your drafts into killer flash fiction, and my passion for art history helps push your stories into unexpected directions.
Now, for the first time, we are offering an immersive course in ekphrastic microfiction! It's a two week Edward Hopper immersive. We'll journey together into the art and life of Edward Hopper, and use his uniquely cinematic paintings to conjure small fictions. You will be writing from Hopper's strange, moody world in a way that is entirely your own. And we will be looking at examples of literary fiction from Edward Hopper's work as inspiration. Like our weekend intensives and shorter workshops, this course will include a Facebook group where peers can connect, share their stories, and converse. Each participant will write five microfiction works over the two week period, and receive feedback from Meg and Lorette. There will be an optional Zoom gathering to share, discuss, and wrap up the program. The two week Hopper immersive is $180 USD, approx. 245 Canadian dollars. Join us! Click here or on image above to learn more about our workshops or sign up for the Hopper immersive.  Angel, by Abbott Handerson Thayer (USA) 1889 I Know This Angel Cover girl for a book on angels, she lacks the tight, stylized ringlets of copper or gold, the jewel-toned Renaissance robes, the look of hauteur or boredom we’ve come to expect. I recognize my college roommate. She’s wondering, Am I really meant to be here? Pioneer coeds, she was the only one who surpassed my shyness. I understand why the editor chose her. One look and you know she’ll stay by your side and face whatever comes at you. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille graduated from the first coed class at the University of Virginia, where she picked up her B.A. in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. Retired now, Alarie delights in having more time to read, write poetry, and hang out at The Ekphrastic Review. Her latest poetry collection, Three A.M. at the Museum, has joined her earlier books on The Ekphrastic Bookshelf. Please visit her at alariepoet.com.  Number Twenty Seven, by Jackson Pollock (USA) 1950 Pollock - Number Twenty Seven Imagination discovers number 27, the shadow side of a New Year’s party all diamonds and bile the insides of a celebration from a blind host viewed from a balcony flattened on the wall. To paint the air be led by revelations of extracted energy particles - the history of the colour bronze woven in the magic of fingertips, to pluck colour from flowers, sky, asphalt, paint cans give it meaning in our lives let the meaning give itself meaning in the mixture and swirl and combination, and some people, some people begin from a God-perspective in the air above the canvas a Fantasia conductor of colour and conversation, musical emotion falling from drips and droplets until splatter mingles into arrangements, symphonies of city plucked like Pollock pollen painted in the country, in a barn across a field. Cathyann Fisher Cathyann is a beat poet of energy and illumination, she enjoys creating works of art out of a multitude of media and making an adventure out of spontaneous experiences. Cathyann has been included in two Great Weather for Media anthologies, and Sparring With Beatnik Ghost anthologies. She has published five books of poetry: Being Myself on Fire, The Soul Made Visible, The Main Content, Ordinarily Divine and Walking Down The Street With the Sound of Life in Her Eyes. Her next book of poetry: Roadtrips, Fantasies, and Lava Flows is due to be released late 2022. You’re Meant to Suffer / You’re Meant to Adapt Think big, think megalith, think slow. Think fifty years in the making. Nixon was President at the artist’s first shovelful. Nixon was President. Sleep Lake County, Nevada, was a blip on the map—barren, sleepy, sheepy—a blip! A man could make his mark there. To hell with gallery openings, we’re talking memorable—Hell! the Sphinx, Stonehenge—not Insta-fame, a lifetime of hauling—nothing like Insta-fame! and this, before drones’ bird’s eye view. Heizer winged skyward in dreams to view how the earth beneath suggested both womb and grave. His City suggests both space-dock and grave, a backdrop for human fragility and outsized ambition. You envy his moxy, his monstrous and mounded ambition. Only from the air does the layout resolve into elegance, says a reporter. An elegant glyph, no less. Elegance you can see from space. No giftshops. No bathrooms. You walk the whole damn thing for miles. You walk-- forced to think big, monolithic, slow. Devon Balwit NB: The title and italicised portions of this poem are taken from Michael Kimmelman's article on the City in the New York Times. Click here to read. Devon Balwit walks in all weather. Her most recent collections are Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2021]. https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet  Duets: Alexis Rhone Fancher and Cynthia Atkins Small Harbor Publishing, 2022 Click here or on image cover above to view or purchase. We are so excited to announce an incredible duet! Duets is a new ekphrastic collaboration between two luminaries, Alexis Rhone Fancher and Cynthia Atkins. Both poets write from Alexis's iconic photography to create an unforgettable ekphrastic dialogue. In this showcase, we have interviews with both Cynthia and Alexis. Scroll down after for a photo followed by the accompanying poetry of both.  Cynthia Atkins (Anne Valerie Portrait) Cynthia The Ekphrastic Review: Talk to us about the collaboration process and how it worked for you artistically. Collaborating with another artist can bring so much but it also gives boundaries and limitations. What challenges did you experience? In what ways was your muse accelerated or changed? Cynthia Atkins: Way before this project that became, Duets, I have always been inspired by Alexis’s work—her boldness, and raw intuitions, her ability to write about taboo subjects with such honesty. My poems tend to be more cerebral, but also about taboo subjects, such as mental health. Her work has loosened up mine and challenged me to take more risks and move the boundary lines. Even though our voices are wholly different, I think they bounce off and complement one another, challenge the reader. But this is the first time I have actually shared my work like this in this way, my poetry. It is different when things bounce and reflect off one another. In other parts of my life, I have had to share things, stuffed toys, siblings, husbands—the detritus of life. For me, my writing has always been my place of solitude and spiritual questioning. So, to share this “spiritual” space is something new for me. I’m not gonna lie, it will be challenging, even with the best of friends. Our egos, our sense of ourselves. But more and more, the older I get, the ART is more about process, than outcomes. These two years writing Duets was so cathartic during the darkest covid days, writing these poems together was an anchor, it saved me from a real lonely abyss-- “It is because I dove into the abyss that I am beginning to love the abyss I am made of.”—Clarice Lispector... But the process has been so gratifying mixing our metaphors. It opened doors. The Ekphrastic Review: Tell us a bit about the selection process for the photography. Did you look at many options and see what spilled out, then gather your favourites, or did you curate the imagery and then wait for the muse to work its magic on those pieces? Were you both in agreement when it came to choosing the pictures? Cynthia: Yes, nice question on process---Usually, Alexis sent two photos for us to choose from—and was often gracious in letting me select the photo that spoke to me. A few she also selected. I looked at the photos as a ‘taking off’ point, not trying to do any kind of direct narrative or illustration of the photo. It was fun and interesting to see the journey each photo took us on—and to compare how different our responses. I think the fact that every poem in the book was spoken for by an individual beautiful journal, without the journal having any knowledge of the accompanying photograph, speaks to the fact that each poem can stand on their own. I think this was important to both of us—when you see the photo with the poem, of course it adds a whole new layer of aesthetic intrigue, more pathos, new questions. Art keeps giving. The Ekphrastic Review: How do you usually approach ekphrasis? What kind of imaginative field work takes place for you? How do you tend to find a way into the artwork, and where do you end up? Was this different for you, knowing the artist? Cynthia: Because I have always done visual Art myself (collage, drawing, printmaking) visual imagery has always spoken to me as a poet—I find poetry to be more like experiencing a painting, rather than a work of fiction. Painting, art poetry are siblings, and bounce off of each other’s metaphorical possibilities. I like to jump into the visual narrative as a jumping off point, but not be limited to that narrative. It’s an entry point, not a final destination. The Ekphrastic Review: What themes or experiences are you usually drawn to in your poetry? How do your poems in Duets fit in or differ from that path? Cynthia: I have always written about family, mental health, trauma and healing. Duets was project we started at the beginning of the pandemic, to help allay our fears and ability to concentrate. Those were uncertain times, back before vaccines and when people were calling and singing out windows, and sirens were blaring through cities. And the dark dystopian times, neo-fascists are literally taking away our reproductive freedoms, books being banned, all of it. So having these images to respond and having my counterpart in art crime at my side, made for a way to get through. Some people play cards, some knit, some walk and chew gum, we wrote poems and “Duet” was the beautiful outcome of our alchemy of mutual artistic respect and sisterhood. The Ekphrastic Review: Your poetry uses dazzling language to explore the spiritual, the erotic, and the morbid. Tell us about the ways these themes inform your work, and how they are connected. Cynthia: Thank you for the kind words. Ahhh, the ‘spiritual, erotic, and morbid’ are the essential elements of life if you think about it. We are made of flesh and bone, as Djuna Barnes said, “Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.” As a young girl, I found that words made my boat float. I like the sounds of them, I liked writing them, I liked reading the dictionary and discovering new words and their meanings. To this day, I find indelible magic and amazement that only twenty-six sticks of letters in an alphabet, rub together to compose all the books in all the libraries. They are lineage, precursor, lush and full or lorn. Yes, I do love words. The Ekphrastic Review: What is your favourite poem by Alexis in this collection? Tell us about what moves you. Cynthia: Each of her poems has a special place in my heart because we workshopped these poems closely, so I know them well, and made suggestions for edits. So I feel close to the work. But “Identity Theft” speaks to me on so many levels, about self and selfhood, motherhood, and all the hats and selves we wear. She strikes just the right tone in this poem, so sad, but not saccharin. The poem moves and torques so well and takes me on a ride of pathos and loss and reminders of all the small and large thefts we endure to live. It’s such a stunning and heartbreaking poem: “Then I wake up hungry. And my ID, keys, and my boy are still gone.” This poem has so many levels, speaks to what Alexis does so well with her word magic. The Ekphrastic Review: What poem of your own was the most difficult to birth? Why? Are you happy with how it came together? Cynthia: “My Privacy Settings” was a difficult one for me because as a white privileged person writing about racial subjects can be touchy, sensitive and cross boundaries. I had wanted to write a poem about my early childhood friend, Angelica—a mixed race girl—who couldn’t come to my birthday party because Martin Luther King, Jr had been assassinated. At eight, I couldn’t understand why she was grieving for someone she didn’t know and why someone she didn’t know would keep her from coming to my party—someone she did know and was close to? —Of course my understanding came much later. We lost touch long ago, but it has since bothered me that I didn’t show Angelica proper understanding and sympathy. The poem was hard to write for these reasons and the cultural miasma of discomfort about the subject of race. I’m so glad for the prompt photo that helped me push it through, and happy with it because it was a kind of apology poem to my long lost beautiful friend.  Self Portrait, 2019, Alexis Rhone Fancher Alexis The Ekphrastic Review: Talk to us about the collaboration process and how it worked for you artistically. Collaborating with another artist can bring so much but it also gives boundaries and limitations. What challenges did you experience? In what ways was your muse accelerated or changed? Alexis Rhone Fancher: Although DUETS is our first poetry book collaboration, and we live on opposite ends of the country, Cynthia and I have been friends for over a decade. Nurtured by poetry and cemented by a shared aesthetic and a dark sense of humor, our friendship has sustained us both. The collaboration that resulted in DUETS didn’t start out that way. We’ve met to write/edit weekly for the past few years via phone and computer, and the result has been remarkable. Every poem we’ve written has been published in a kick-ass journal, and we’ve each grown as poets, editing each other’s work with care and a critical eye. We trust each other, trust that the work will be edited with love. The Ekphrastic Review: How did it feel to read Cynthia’s words in response to your photography? Were there any surprises in how that played out? Alexis: We chose each photo together, and then retreated to our writing spaces, each using the same photo to tempt the muse. Meeting every week to read/edit that week’s poems kept us honest in the sense that we had to produce a poem for each week’s meeting. And it was fascinating to read Cynthia’s response to my photos. Her poems were SO different than mine. Hard to believe they were each inspired by the same photograph. The more I read Cynthia’s poem responses, the more I saw the genius in her words. The Ekphrastic Review: What is it like writing ekphrasis to your own work? Did the process come naturally, expressing yourself from the same well as your photography, or did it give you a different way in to your own artwork? Alexis: Writing ekphrastic poems to my own photos is something I have always done. Most of my poetry books and chapbooks contain my photos as illustrations. Sometimes the poem informs the photo, sometimes the photo provides the inspiration. While my photos anchor me, they also provide a launching pad by inspiring a poem, as they did here with DUETS. I also design all my own book covers. Control freak? Moi? The Ekphrastic Review: Tell us a bit about your process as a photographer. What drives you? How do you work? How do you hope people look at your photographs, here and elsewhere? Alexis: My photography allows me to record my world in real time. I shoot portraits in my studio with a Nikon D810 camera and an 85mm or 135mm portrait lense. Far more formal than my “street” photos, shot with my iPhone 13 Pro Max. Can’t say which I love more, controlling everything. Or nothing. You can check out my photos on my website: alexisrhonefancher.com. As for how I want people to look at my photos, I’d say with an open mind and an intense curiosity. The Ekphrastic Review: You are famous for your candid confrontation with two epic topics, both personal and archetypal, in your poetry: sex, and death. How is your treatment on these themes in this collection similar or different from your other works? Alexis: DUETS is different than my previous collections/chapbooks in that it contains both erotic poems and poems about my family/personal life. I normally keep the two topics separate, but it felt right. “Bad Mother” snugged up against the erotic. “In the Drink” just worked for me. The Ekphrastic Review: What poem of Cynthia’s stands out to you the most in this collection? Tell us about how it speaks to you. Alexis: I love “Diminution, 11 AM.” It’s brilliant. We are both huge Edward Hopper fans and I was fascinated by how totally different Cynthia’s poem about my “Hopperesque” photo was from mine. Brilliant. The Ekphrastic Review: Was there a poem of your own that you struggled with? Tell us the story of your most challenging piece in the collection. Alexis: “Fire & Ice” was tricky. Informed by real life events, I was careful with how I described our outlaw spouses. I know my second husband, Eric is long dead, and Annie’s spouse, Jonathan, has also been dead for decades. I’ve lost touch with Annie, although the 16X20 portrait of her hangs in my studio for inspiration. We were two innocent women, married to gangsters, in way out of our depth. I survived. Don’t know if Annie did. Hope so.  “We Are All Hopper Paintings Now” —Jonathan Jones The Guardian, UK (27 March 2020) That’s me, solo table at The Automat, staring into a cold cup of tea; me, just out of frame, driving up to the lonely pump jockey in Gas. My sister says I have a “bad picker,” that my type (well-hung and irresponsible) is very very bad for me, and she’s right. I wouldn’t know a good guy if he snatched me up off the street in broad daylight, I tell her. My point, exactly, my sister chides. I decide not to tell her about the stranger I’m chatting with online. He wants to send me on a train trip, meet him in Detroit, all expenses paid, and I admit, the thought makes me wet. That’s me, the woman reading in Compartment C Car, hurtling cross county toward a brand new life. I text him that I love Detroit, that I’m a fool for muscle cars. He says he’s a poet and an artist and a Buddhist. That he hasn’t owned a car in years. I confess, romance never ends well for me. Sometimes the loneliness screams so loud I want to drown myself in a tawdry romance novel with a sappy ending, or a bottomless glass of rye. Sometimes I want to hitch a ride with a comely vagabond, a poet from Michigan, drive off into the sunset. I lived 15 years with a Lakota Sioux medicine man on Pine Ridge Indian reservation in SD, he texts. Lived on a deserted tropical island off the coast of Thailand, in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Kathmandu, traveled Europe, lived amongst Bedouin Arabs in the Negev desert. I text back a smiley face and wait. I want to hitchhike to Tierra del Fuego, he responds. Wanna go? If only he knew! I’m the woman staring out the bay window in Cape Cod Morning, desperate for my latest true love to reappear. He said he was going to the store for bread, gas up the Chevy. Be right back, he said. The cloudy sky mirrors my mood. I wait. And wait. You should know better, my sister says. There are no rescuers anymore. I know that. I’m the usherette leaning against the wall in New York Movie. I’ve seen that film a dozen times; I’m lost in reverie. Dressed in a thoughtful blue uniform, rebellion looks like the strappy-assed shoes, half-hidden on my feet. Alexis Rhone Fancher Also published in NYQ Magazine, Spring issue 2021. ** DIMINUTION, 11 AM after Edward Hopper Blue to yellow, the voice told me not to bathe. The voice said the window is a guardrail. Said today is just like tomorrow. There is no safety from the noise and the sorrow of birds. Told me to sit very still, like a red clay pot on a shelf. The voice said don’t take out the trash, don’t make-up the bed. Beauty only makes pain bellow worse, until the mattress takes up all the air in the room. Said to deadbolt the door where latchkey brats dwell. Once, my breasts were savvy as two new bucket seats. The railroad tracks took my love to another town, to raise another woman’s children. The voice said the sun will crack your skin like paint on an old wall. The voice said you’re not here, you’re an erasure. Said the radio would tune out the pathos of loose wires. Little motes of silence trip the air, my lips are hugging the voice. The chatter of teeth. Make yourself naked, make yourself null. Make yourself small as a toothpick in his teeth, with shoes like daggers. Cynthia Atkins This poem was first published in The Indianapolis Review.  Back cover of Duets.  Portrait of Maud Abrantes, by Amedeo Modigliani (Italy) 1908 Maud Abrantes No one has seen deep into her face, the tilt between a last indication of necessary light and a tomorrow remaining sightless. Her eyes, bound in a frame, light nowhere. If he should try to set a flame there all we would see is the stare, no flinch to a rushing fear. Nothing is there to scurry her triple hope to lead the quiet that lets us know time collapsed between her spark that fails to show and all her never afters. John Riley John Riley lives in North Carolina with a jerk of a dog named Louie. When he calls him, Louie goes in the other direction. John, not Louie, has published poetry, fiction, and reviews in Smokelong Quarterly, Eclectica, Ekphrastic Review, Banyan Review, and dozens of other journals and anthologies. EXOT Books will publish a volume of 100 of his 100-word prose poems in the fall of 2022. |
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October 2022
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