December 2022 Featured Pieces
The Rosary by Deidre Cunniffe
Hail Mary, full of grace You were always far more of a poet than me. Maybe now I am catching up to you, scrawling across some separate page. Your lovely penmanship, my barely legible hand. Poetic in and of itself, no? The Lord is with thee We were younger, with little to make metaphors about. Yet, you insisted if we had existed in some other time, one further back, I would have been a constellation. You showed me, taking my hand and pointing it towards the night. A few pieces of Cassiopeia, parts of Ursa Minor, some of Cepheus, and Polaris. A songbird, you said. I asked where the constellations which were already there came from (I knew). You laughed in response, “Some sort of wild storyteller.” I wonder what you have to say about the songbird, storyteller? Blessed art thou among women We were products of the church choir. Your mother adored me. I was a lovely catholic girl with a kind smile, talking at a mile a minute, bowing my head for grace at the table, waking up early on Sundays. I could sing through the hymnals of a service, sit still for the sermon where some holy man would tell me, tell us, we were evil. That there was some part of us weaker than the rest, that we had to renounce it to find the heaven they made us sing about. When we got older, you would let the church guide you, let your family lead you. I would stop talking about this part of my life, palms up against my thighs in a pew. My family leaned away from the harm that the altar can cause, and I am grateful for that. The hymnals still sit heavy in my chest. Holy Mary, mother of God We were connected by many things and nothing at all. You were quieter and gentle and enchanting. You drew people into you with your slender fingers,bell-like laughter, and kind eyes. There was a sternness with which you loved, a product of your Polish-American upbringing. “Don’t do that, it's dangerous,” “Be gentle, don’t hurt yourself, don’t be ridiculous.” I was a firecracker, loud and bright and out of control. All wild blonde hair, bright green eyes, hips too wide for my body, strong legs, echoing laugh. I loved with my whole body, the same way I had been taught. “Have you eaten today?” “How is your ma?” “I missed you.” Pray for us sinners Perhaps in some other lifetime, we were both able to stay. There was no frigid January after spending the holidays apart, me with my family in the mountains, you with yours in a church pew. After you tore things apart, I was gentle with you, and your love revealed itself. “You’re being too kind to me,” “If an outsider were to look at this, I’d look evil.” You would have. We both knew that. I wouldn’t let you be the bad guy, though. I wouldn’t let you remember our love with a bitter end. It was the only lifeline I could give you then. “Yell at me. Tell me I’m awful, please.” I wouldn’t. The Bible in your nightstand is still there. A heady presence, a reminder. I wish I could make you forget. All I could do was make you remember. Now, and at the hour of our death. Perhaps one day we’ll run into each other once more. Maybe we won’t even recognize one another. I doubt it, though. You have burned something into my skin, fingertips, and handprints seared against a freckled chest and shoulders. Like a sinner in church, I’m sure I’msome sort of devil in the front of your mind. Such a tragedy you loved me, isn’t it? I know I was your greatest sin. I’d do it again. Amen. |
"Wave Lover Lover", Chiho Jing
what killed the dinosaurs by Anika Kotapally
week one: it is nighttime and through the telescope, a spot in the sky is just a bit bigger than it was yesterday, still small and barely noticeable. i go inside and when i crawl into bed, always later than i should, you are already there, reaching for me even in sleep. week two: it is nighttime and this time i don’t need the telescope to see the spot in the sky, still small, still just another twinkling pinprick, still bigger than it was yesterday. i go inside to the kitchen where you are waiting for me and there are cups of tea and the cat winds between the stool legs as its tail brushes my leg. week three: it is twilight and still the spot is visible, shining and starlike, somehow bigger than it was yesterday, pricking at something in my subconscious. i go inside and the person on the news mentions some new discovery, but you ask me to switch the channel, your favorite show is on at eleven. week four: it is twilight and i can see the spot, except it’s not quite a spot, it’s not quite beautiful, it’s not quite starlike. i go inside and when i check my phone there are a million news stories, proclaiming the end of the world, and you hold my hand as we read them, faces twisted and afraid, cat purring in my lap. week five: it is daytime and the spot is not a spot because it is a weapon, and we are the only thing in its path, defenseless and waiting. i go inside because i don’t want to see it and i don’t want to know and your face is a moon, pale and shiny with tears, and when i see it the pit in my stomach somehow, impossibly, lessens . week six: it is daytime and i am already inside because the spot is bigger than the moon now and all that’s left to do is wait. we have called everyone whose voices we wanted to hear and now we curl into the bed and each other, and the cat sits by your head and the birds chirp outside and i don’t close my eyes because i only want to see you as we go. "Old Timey Cameras", Josephine Waslin
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