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Thank you to everyone who participated in the Send in the Clowns ekphrastic contest. It was a joy to read through the poetry and flash fiction that these wonderful artworks inspired! Please find below, in alphabetic order by author, the responses selected for publication in The Ekphrastic Review. A big thank you to editor Sandi Stromberg for choosing the flash fiction and poetry winners. Sandi read the entries blind. The winning poem is Equipoise, by Julia Griffin. The winning flash fiction is Coney Island Kaleidoscope, by Barbara Krasner. A big congratulations to these winners! Julia and Barbara will each receive $100 for their winning entries. Please read all of the selected pieces below and celebrate our writers by sharing them far and wide. If you missed the contest but would like to dive into the world of the circus in art history for further inspiration, you can purchase the curated ebooks with a treasure trove of imagery, here: https://www.ekphrastic.net/ebooks.html Congratulations again to all participants, to the selected writers, and to Julia and Barbara for their winning work!  Acrobat You told me the city was a circus but I never thought you meant it literally. You did: leaving the bus station I see high wires strung between buildings, an office worker or two darting along. There’s nothing to catch them if they fall, these worker-walkers, but they don’t seem to mind, with their briefcases in place of a balancing pole. I hail a cab, and a clown, one of those who distracts from the accidents, blinks back at me from the driver’s seat. On the road it’s all a riot under the big top. There’s an elephant serving as a roundabout, sentinel-like and calm, but the rest is enough extravaganza that I don’t know where to look. A lion tamer cracks his whip, and the cats stretch their jaws open to receive the heads of pedestrians. Beside these, the horses prance, hooves flying upwards and outwards, nearly smashing the hubs of cars. The ringleader signals me; do I want to join? I am tired, though, and shake my head; above the lapels of his red coat, the man nods and turns back; the tigers are emerging from behind the cafés. The taxi and I set off towards the striped tent I’ve rented for a recuperation home. My baggage in the back seat bounces: you know I’ve juggled a lot this past year, healthwise. The car ricochets past a boulevard, a ballet dancer with her feet arched in beauty and pain. In the suburbs where we’re going, the streets are lined with more of them, dancers, all backbending in the double-jointed circus-style that will kill you when you’re old. A few stand on tiptoe to wave at me, and their arms shining with work and the sweat that comes from it; they smile but one or two faces are grey now, lined from old injuries. One dancer is dressed as an ageing Harlequin and treats me to an awkward bow. As we approach my new home, I see you in your window. I’d thought you the strongman, but you are just another acrobat, your feet dangling dangerously from your trapeze. How healthy am I now? Not very. How healthy are you? Be careful, I think. I realize I’ve forgotten to tell you how easily after the surgery my heart can break. I’ve forgotten to tell you to be gentle with me, and always practise with a net. Colleen V. Addison Colleen Addison completed a Master's degree in Creative Writing, followed by a PhD in health information; she then promptly got sick herself. She now lives, writes, and heals on a small island off the coast of Vancouver, Canada. Previously, her work was published in numerous Canadian literary magazines and newspapers; now her recent work has featured in Halfway Down the Stairs, Flash Fiction Friday, and A Story in 100 Words. She has been nominated for a Best of the Net award and is writing a romance novel and a poetry chapbook, rather stupidly at the same time.  Sideshow How strange to think mere oddity would be a prized commodity as staple of the circus fare far better known for art of dare and energetic comic flair and feats that beasts are trained to bare and hand and eye agility and balancing ability... ...and yet the sideshow found its place success in part that it could trace to women clad in skimpy clothes who teased what they would not expose with mesmerizing skillful dance that flaunted thrill of stolen glance which never came but satisfied the ego that in earnest tried... ...and that, perhaps as well, explained bravado whether real or feigned enticing payments made for seats to marvel at fantastic feats -- a swallowed sword, a flame consumed, escape from shackles while entombed, a body pierced as calm prevails or weighted while it's laid on nails -- all things we say can't be believed yet wonder just how we're deceived... ...in fashion much the same it seems as doubt that weakens barker screams that we will sense the soul unique of life forever lived as freak at least that is if we possess the courage to endure duress and look them squarely in the eye admitting that we wonder why we can't dissolve the disbelief relieving us from pain of grief for persons grossly overweight or born conjoined as cruel fate or destined to be grossly tall or made to suffer far too small or bearded though a woman born or inked as art forever worn… all casting light where light is due on who we are and what we do reminding us we too at dawn greet life as show that must go on Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart.  Never Forget They pulled me away from my sister as she reached for me, her chains stretched and rattled as she screamed. Hands guided me into a truck. I could hear but not see and I cried, Terrified- I stood still as we rode. I never saw my sister as time passed. I thought of her when they beat me, when I did tricks and ran the ring. At night, I dreamed she was there beside me, as we leaned together, bearing our loneliness in a circus tent. Even that would have been better than my solitude, in a circus trailer not knowing where I traveled. Each time they coax me forward, tugging at me with their stick, I think I hear my sister. So long ago when I cried, she screamed out to me, never forget. Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet who advocates for captive elephants, writing about sanctuaries, as well as teen issues, nature, environment and other topics. She is particularly fond of writing ekphrastic poems. Her poems have appeared in many journals, including Blue Heron Review, Elephant Vigil, Lothlorien and The Ekphrastic Review. Dickson has served on two poetry boards and as a guest editor. Her full length works are available on Amazon.  Colour Theory Chagall's, The Grand Circus. I read that Chagall, in painting so many of his circuses, used colour more than line or shape to evoke those whose talent and will refuse to follow the body’s usual protocols, but rather with strong and flexible muscles push past anatomical limits, extend without the loss of balance, the range and possibilities of movement, to spin dizzy the compass of limbs in whatever wanted directions, must be quick and silken clean, pinpointed, control that torso, to mime the agility of animals, monkeys or birds or panthers, solids to turn fluid, weight to float, arms winged for flight. Makes sense, colour does, best suggests these effects on his canvas, for instance, lemon yellow an obvious choice for these trapeze artists like rays of juiced sunlight, red for the acrobats, balls of somersaulting fire and flame, green for the vinous contortionists. Never black or brown to indicate any earthen gravities. And over all a gouache of his favoured cobalt blue as if space itself were not an absence, but a colour, a cool swirl of sky to tint our glasses, the whole of us mere pigments mixed with water or oil and any minute liable to liquidate into a gloppy medium, squeezed sumptuously from our tubes onto a palette to mix and bleed not in horror but in ecstasy, like some really great acid trip, or the fun abandon during Holi, the Hindu festival when celebrants riot color, splash confetti powders of every hue, at our dour monochrome skins, painted one big hot mess, obscuring the molds that keep us intact as identifiable forms. Chagall plays the music of prisms, plucks the ROYGIBV strings with an artist’s prerogative, frees up colour from its associated nature to determine its own spectrum. Who cares! He said that painting this subject matter felt the same as when he worked on religious scenes, the three-ring circus was like a crucifixion, by which I think he meant that the performers, saints of muscle and bone, endure pain and injury for the joy of spectators, sacrifice their bodies to great heights, each one like a tragic kind of Christ on the cross hung up and nailed to the wood in the most unlikely stunt of all, to believe how in the end we will transcend our incarnations, rise to the occasion to become the everlasting life of light. Deborah Gorlin Deborah Gorlin is the author of three books of poems, Bodily Course, White Pine Poetry Press Prize, 1997; Life of the Garment, winner of the 2014 May Sarton New Hampshire Poetry Prize; and Open Fire Bauhan, 2023. Her work has appeared in a wide range of journals including Poetry; American Poetry Review; Bomb, Best Spiritual Writing 2000, Plume; On the Seawall; the Ekphrastic Review; Mass Poetry: the Hard Work of Hope; The Common; and Yetzirah. Her lyric essay, “Jack of All Trades,” was published as a finalist in Calyx Magazine’s 2022 Margarita Donnelly Prize for Prose Writing. Emerita co-director of the Writing Program at Hampshire College, she served for many years as a poetry editor at The Massachusetts Review.  It’s Lucky the Circus Was in Town That Day Mae and Vern opened their upstairs window to see their neighbours, Ted and Dolly, scrambling onto the back of a giant, fibreboard whale, as it bobbled about on the brown river of the high street. Dolly waved, hey, and launched the whale towards May and Vern with a broom handle. “I can’t,” said Mae. “You must,” said Vern. “Our things,” said Mae. “Just things,” said Vern. Their son loved the circus. Toddler Howie would drag thick rings of lipstick around his eyes and mouth and chant, “Look at me, I’m Howie the clown!” while Vern glared and rustled his newspaper with stiff wrists. Mae still searched for Howie in the faces of the circus folk whenever they showed up. Had hoped he might be with them this time round. “Easy now!” said Ted. “This whale’s a trifle precarious.” “Looking forward to a cuppa,” said Dolly, patting Mae’s hand. Small rescue boats breezed past, hastily tethered pallets, the odd door. All heading towards the library, which had been commandeered as a temporary refuge. Mae turned to speak to Vern, but he was staring into the murky water. Perhaps he was thinking about trout. Or that time in the public baths when Mae left her swimsuit in the locker room. Close up the whale wasn’t as wholesome as it had seemed in the circus’s wheeled aquarium. There were ugly, leering gashes across its hollow casing and its blow hole was a crudely painted black circle. Dolly delved into her knitting bag. “Third grandchild,” she grinned, “had to save this.” She offered Mae a plump ball of wool, “I got spare.” Mae shook her head, “I can’t knit.” She would have saved Howie’s baby photos, his unfathomably detailed circus drawings. The felt, elephant-shaped pin cushion he’d sewn for her, her initials stitched like fat lines of ants. Vern hadn’t given her time. At the Little Splashers session for parents and toddlers, the other kids had giggled and shrieked. Howie’d clung to the edge of the pool, his knuckles as bleached as the tiny worms Vern used for fishing bait, Mae behind him, murmuring, “I’ve got you I’ve got you,” please can’t you just enjoy this. By the time she’d prised Howie’s fingers free, Vern had disappeared. To check out the squash courts, he’d said later. The other mums and dads had tutted to each other. Mae couldn’t hear them over Howie’s screams, but she could see what their mouths were doing. Later nobody could remember exactly how it happened. The whale lurched in the wake of a small powerboat, and Vern was in the juice, scrabbling to grasp a flimsy flipper. Ted and Dolly strained to reach his hand, their lips pursed and wrinkled like deflated pool rings. “It’ll be fine,” said Mae, as her husband’s head waggled away in the current. “Somebody will save him.” Ted and Dolly looked enormously relieved. Mae didn’t mention that Vern couldn’t swim. It would be wrong to worry her neighbours. They’d always been so kind. Linda Grierson-Irish Linda Grierson-Irish’s short fiction has appeared in Flash Frontier, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, Unbroken Journal, 100 Word Story, Reflex Fiction, Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, Ellipsis Zine, The Ekphrastic Review, TSS, Flash 500 and elsewhere. Her work has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and Bath Flash Fiction Award, included on the BIFFY50 list, received two honourable mentions for Best Microfiction, and been selected for the 2023 Best Small Fictions anthology. She lives in Shropshire, UK.   First place winner in poetry! Equipoise And as he lifts his arm he sees four hooves Rise in slow motion like a dream, and rise And rise above him, while the spotlight moves Upwards and upwards where, tornado-wise, The great cloud-bodies swell, the blue, the grey, Higher and higher, stretching, neck and croup, Over the earth – and he can only pray They still can hear his voice, for should they swoop Down, should those fiery head-crests plummet, how Could he, lone man, survive the weight, the force Of storm made flesh? But, hand still pointing, now He summons all his will and whispers: Horse; And sees them slowly sink, deflate, undo This moment – which he offers here to you. Julia Griffin Julia Griffin lives in south-east Georgia. She has published in several online poetry magazines, including The Ekphrastic Review.  Orange Crush Citrus absinthe inebriation hallucination. Juicy fantasy giant oranges the shape of footballs trample a tangerine pageant. Unconscious in Amsterdam in apricot pantaloons hazy tangelos drop from a tree fresh-squeezed neroli wafts marmalade peel. Tanya Adèle Koehnke Tanya Adèle Koehnke earned her MA in English from York University. Tanya taught English at several colleges and universities in Toronto. Tanya also has a background in arts journalism. Tanya’s poems appear in The Ekphrastic Review; Canadian Woman Studies; Hamilton Arts & Letters; Framed & Familiar: 101 Portraits: An International Anthology of Poetry & Photography; Big Art Book; Tinted Memories; Alchemy and Miracles: Nature Woven Into Words; Harmonic Verse: Poems for the Holidays; Bards Against Hunger: 10th Anniversary Anthology; Tea-Ku: Poems About Tea; Foreplay: An Anthology of Word Sonnets; Grid Poems: A Guide and Workbook; and other publications.  Puppet Waltz Old king clown asleep with one eye open in a knobby red bed head tilted hands folded bozo nose. Old queen clownette drowsy and stooped in a red velvet chair awaits drama music to play an angel and suitor to waltz away on scuffed floorboards a queue of dancehall guests dressed in fancy best observe. Red courtesan blue dandy everyone is still with wonder until puppeteers pull invisible strings animate marionettes suspended in a royal vignette wobbling stumbling teetering tottering collapsing. Tanya Adèle Koehnke Tanya Adèle Koehnke earned her MA in English from York University. Tanya taught English at several colleges and universities in Toronto. Tanya also has a background in arts journalism. Tanya’s poems appear in The Ekphrastic Review; Canadian Woman Studies; Hamilton Arts & Letters; Framed & Familiar: 101 Portraits: An International Anthology of Poetry & Photography; Big Art Book; Tinted Memories; Alchemy and Miracles: Nature Woven Into Words; Harmonic Verse: Poems for the Holidays; Bards Against Hunger: 10th Anniversary Anthology; Tea-Ku: Poems About Tea; Foreplay: An Anthology of Word Sonnets; Grid Poems: A Guide and Workbook; and other publications.   First place in flash fiction! Coney Island Kaleidoscope Coney Island was the place to be. Manhattan’s Lower East Side was too crowded, too loud, too dirty, nothing at all like the fields of Max’s native Poland. He wanted the water, the smell of the salt, the crunch of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, the seagull caw over the ocean’s surface. After he arrived in 1914 from France, Max lived with his cousin and her husband, started a business. Soon he could move to Mermaid Avenue on Coney Island. Mermaids, an idea that would have made his father’s face flare like fireplace bellows, comforted Max. An adventure, a fantastic adventure unlike his school days, his joiner apprenticeship in the shtetl. Here, the electrified lights of the amusement park made him feel alive, at the edge of something unexpected and great. To Max, there was no battle of lights, but a dance of lights that invited him and his bride, Rose, to enter towered pavilions, their spires reaching to the sky with flags reminding them of the movement of the ocean and the ships that brought them across. Carnival attractions in hues of Atlantic blue, tomato red, American dollar green, and gold, replace the gray of the shtetl. Here in America, here on Coney Island, here on Mermaid Avenue, lives were about to change. Dreamland. Creation. The End of the World. All illusion, because here anything became possible. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a frequent contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. Her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in Here: A Poetry Journal, The Mackinaw: A Journal of Prose Poetry, MacQueen's Quinterly, Nimrod, Rust + Moth, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in New Jersey where she is also the co-editor of the regional literary magazine, Kelsey Review. Visit her website at www.barbarakrasner.com.  Mary Hartline and Me, Equestriennes Mary Hartline wore red and white spangles, but both she and this woman stood on a white stallion’s broad bare back circling the ring to the pace set by the ringmaster’s whip snap. I watched Mary on grandma’s black and white tv but my set of Mary Hartline paper dolls showed me the colors of her costumes. I spent many long summer afternoons on grandma’s porch bending the paper tabs so Mary could change from red riding clothes to baton twirler to normal “street” clothes. I often wished Mary would visit, share the secrets of bareback riding, maybe even allow me to mount her steed. (I’d experienced only a park’s pony rides-- saddled, no standing, no bareback.) When grandma went inside the house her wide steel glider became my white horse. I stood on it, imagining a circling ride as the bench rocked to and fro. No ringmaster set my pace. I powered my own feats of daring and as best I could imitated Mary’s moves on my glider steed. Although I greatly admired Mary, I never considered running away to a circus. My imagined circus sufficed, in some ways superior to reality. For even now, in old age my circus days continue. I merely smile at this painting and in a flash, I’ve replaced the artist’s rider; I’m the one circling the ring on that white stallion and the who’s one in control. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Her poetry, short stories, and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in North Carolina Literary Review, Red Wolf, Ovunque Siamo, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Silver Birch, The Ekphrastic Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others all over the globe. Joan’s poetry chapbook, Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, is from Finishing Line Press. Her performances include person and folklore presentations featuring food, family, travel, and strong women.  No Saint No one’s Madonna she’s faced the weight of gods and monsters from the start a patterned scarf coils round her neck another snakes over her arm woven in roses as though to remember a garden she won’t see again She wears nothing else stands open and easy naked and relaxed hiding nothing asking no permission refusing judgement from any god or audience she dares to see her disobedient innocence holding our desperate lust a puppet dandled from a wire his face the grinning rictus of an old clown’s leer his arm dangled useless empty as the cheap chintz sack that hides his fleshless wooden joints powerless and sour Mary McCarthy Mary McCarthy is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic, The Plague Papers, edited by Robbi Nester, The Memory Palace, edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen, and recent issues of Gyroscope, 3rd Wednesday, Caustic Frolic, Inscribe, the Storyteller Review, and Verse Virtual. Her collection How to Become Invisible, that chronicles a bipolar journey, is now available from Kelsay books, Amazon, and the author.  I Went Off to Seek the Circus I went off to seek the circus. This world had ever had no fit for me, always chafing, and with no place in proper society. This world had ever worn me half a size too small. I'd had more in line with seasons in squall, the man on the moon, than any friend, or family — at all. So, ta ta now, see you soon. I went off to seek the circus. Surely, they had a place for me. I'd find my spot and make my luck! You chuckle? Just wait! — you'll see. I searched far and I searched wide. I opened every ragged scar and peeked inside, to see what secrets they may hide. I walked so many miles, I feared I would go mad. I walked until I saw Coyote. At his sight, I was so glad. He'd help me out — oh surely! His ragged coat and crooked smiles. I asked him, “Brother, tell me, which way should I walk?” Coyote, gave his head a tilt — his voice, he spoke, a familiar lilt, “I'm Coyote, you know, I can't talk. Anyway, head east, take a left at the daisy.” What a relief! I thought I was starting to think I'd gone crazy! So east I walked. Directions vague and less than clear. But at the last, they got me there. My turn mistaken for carnation, By dusk I knew, this was damnation. At just the hour, when hope was through, I saw starry sky of every hue. Oh, what a miracle! Oh, what a site! The stars had come down to kiss the ground. The circus I'd sought had finally been found! I walked on through half-remembered dream. Through wagons of red, and blue, and wagons of green. Through carnie calls and children's screams. Strangers all about and more in between. Fires that explode, riot bells that ring, vendors that bellow, and monkeys that sing! All the chaos in the world, did here convene! I covered my eyes, and covered my ears, did all that I could to hold back the fears, hold back the shout, hold back the tears. Until at last — “I had to get out!” I had come to seek the circus. Not this chaos nor this panic. I could have this at home, in the comfort of my manic. Time settled the storm as it tends to do. Leaving scars, not one, but two. With further gift of time, chaos found rhythm, and a little rhyme. Then, The merry go round pulled me right out my head. Here was something new to ponder instead. Round and round forever it goes. I cried for them, their endless throes. Look in their face, how they howl and scream, for someone to wake them from Sisyphus dream. A hand came crashing down upon my shoulder. I thought it was a man's, but it belonged to a boulder! A taller man I had never seen. I decided it best not to say anything. “My my, sir! You are obscene!” With furrowed ridge, the boulder glowered. “My apologies sir! I believe it's the hour. If you would be so kind, I'm in need of aid.” Let me guess, he graveled, You seek Feejee Mermaid. “No, you see, I went off to seek the circus. I went off to seek the freaks — the freaks like me. I came to the circus — to seek my family.” The boulder looked me up and down, made no comment, except a stony frown. Simply turned and walked away. Of course I followed. Too long had I been a stray. In the tent all striped ribald, My heart sang home, that sweet herald. There stood a man, to eye bare fit for stardom. But when asked, he said My name is Barnum. All around us, the most curious sort I had ever seen. Each man and woman and those in between! They gathered all around, and said, Won't you let us see? Let us see your talent, Tell us of your curiosity. “No talent mine not held by other hand. I would be oddity, a strange member of your stranger land.” So Barnum pitched a practiced eye, up & down over every inch he pried. Meaning no offense, son. There's nothing odd that I can spy. “See it not, yet I speak it true. For I am curiosity, and in my mind is my deformity. I live on tides of labile moons. After every ditty the dial tunes. Low I wander through veils of darkness, Then dance on clouds untouched by sadness!” Silence filled the tent now full, the only only sound a silent grating of silent thoughts. The Siamese twins reached across and covered their coughs, Wolf boy howled, began to mutter, A fair lady hid behind her beard. Tom Thumb slipped behind a boulder. And I started to wonder, if I'd even been heard! Barnum gave his feet a shuffle, said, I'm afraid I see no feat, nor spectacle. You might want to try somewhere, son a bit more — respectable. “No, you see it's a deformity of the mind! Look inside and surely you'll find that I've nothing to hide!” Yes, well you see… It is that which we fear, It is that we'd leave be. I'm sorry son. I really am. I know you seek your family, I know you seek your clan. But still you see, and must understand, Barnum lives in capitalist society. And I know none alive who'd pay for such deformity. “What of him?” I pointed, “He seems a normal man.” He's from Borneo. “And her?” A Scorpio. “Damn…” And so it was, and so I went. With heavy heart and pocket bare. I am off to seek the circus. (where?) A circus of the mind. Perhaps Coyote can lead me there. Shawn Reagan Shawn Reagan is a poet, teacher, and husband from Minnesota. A sleeping giant of the poetic world, his work is currently focused on life with bipolar 2 and depression. He was shortlisted for the 2024 Tadpole Press Poetry Prize.  New World: Coney Island 1913 The battle of lights ineluctably becomes a ballet of lights Barest hints of mortal red tamped down by photon fairies The swirl of their tutus casting a geometry of cooler colours: Fractals of ultramarine and cerulean, viridian and white. The flick of their wands flings webs of silver. Under this blazing canopy a four year old boy leans forward Moves with slow-motion steps, carefully lifts one foot, then the other. A cloud of pink sugar in one hand, the other clutching his father’s. Their boat from Lebanon recently landed in the shadow of Lady Liberty. The boy turns his tousled head up to his father Who smiles at his raspberry-rimmed mouth, Catches his breath as he sees the lights from above Dancing across his son’s saucer eyes, a magical matrix of colour. “Daddy? What world is this?” Bill Richard Bill Richard is a docent at the Phoenix Art Museum and has loved art since he sat on his dad’s lap as a toddler and looked at books of paintings. His poems have appeared in publications such as Red River Review, Ilya’s Honey, Grey Matter, and National Catholic Reporter.  The Rival This limber lad at first felt glad to join the tumbling team – before each show, backstage he’d go, rehearsing up a steam. He’d place his hands, and make such stands, a wonder to behold – so flexible, incredible! So brilliant and bold! Face fixed and fine, he’d arch his spine – his arms could bear the strain – then bend his knees, to twelve degrees, at least, the best to train. A splendid thing – his feet would swing, and almost brush his head! But then, surprise! A mass of eyes! A peacock came, and said: “Not bad, my friend; let’s not pretend, the crowds are here for you – yes, you can lift, but can you shift? And shimmy, as I do? And can you call, like this – hee-all?” The peacock shrieked with glee. The young man sighed; the bird, with pride, exclaimed: “All eyes on ME!” F.F. Teague F.F. Teague (Fliss) is a copyeditor/copywriter by day and a poet/composer come nightfall. She lives in Pittville, a suburb of Cheltenham (UK). Her poetry features in a number of journals and her second collection, Interruptus: A Poetry Year, is forthcoming. Her other interests include art, film, and photography. 
 Red Deer at Berghof, unknown artist consumed (Germany) 1938 Berghof *, Hitler's Alpine retreat, was near Berchtesgaden / red deer, Cervus elaphus, were widespread throughout Europe and central Asia / this a stylised naïve painting of calm / Hitler a vegetarian / surprising, think the deer. reassuring after being hunted for millennia / red deer named for their ruddy summer coats / the Nazis weaponized hope / the grass here is so green. the edelweiss plentiful / one doe is a saturated red / stylised because stags are solitary until the autumn rut / two whimsical hounds doze with the herd / stylised because canines wild and domestic are predators / nothing remains of Berghof after the Allies bombed it / stags roar, does chatter / the railway tracks to Auschwitz never were / the doe in bright red has a drum / The Monarch of the Glen by Sir Walter Landseer (England, 1851) is a famous specimen / Hitler drew, painted / red deer are not a single species / landscapes, mostly. uninspired and pedantic / rather, a group of related sub-species adapted to various environments / the Nazi Nuremberg Laws forbade marriage to, extramarital relations with non-Aryans / and likely hybridised with other types of deer / the Nazis staged exhibitions of entartete kunst**, degenerate art / in chemise and stockings, the deer are frank. voluptuous / in which nature was "corrupted by the sickness of Cubism and filthy Fauvism. by Naïve with its perverted equal description on all planes and refusal to lessen the background or the other" / Nazi state art glorified the dutiful volk worker, overalls and rolled-up sleeves / the art then the artists disappeared / Communists and Jews, Freemasons and Jehovah Witnesses / trucks? they look like caravans, think the deer / elaborate deceptions maintained calm / "where you'll be taken, the grass is even greener" / mankind has long hunted red deer for meat and hide, bone and antler for prehistoric tools and weapons / "bring valuables and one suitcase each" / the very red doe drums. they board the trucks / where they go, the edelweiss taste of ash Karen Walker Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in Ontario, Canada. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in antonym, Ark Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Misery Tourism, Does it Have Pockets? and EGG+FROG.
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