Poetry: “Memoir” by Carla Panciera

The calf wandered down his driveway

and Louie, thinking: deer, got his gun.

But when the little Jersey emerged

from the buzzing haze of spring,

Louie lay the gun across his lap,

called: Here, Calfie, Calfie,

and the calf, Liza-lashed, a starlet

on mother-of-pearl hooves, came.

Louie had no rope, but you can’t sit forever,

your arm around a calf’s neck, even one

as satiny (oh, love! to smell like

sun and milk!) as this one.

Finally, with an extension cord leash,

they set off to find the owner.

The end of the story goes something

like this: Louie buys the calf. Feeds it

grain sweet as brown sugar, hay

festooned with alfalfa’s purple blooms.

One January, he stuns it, slits

its throat, the black eyes filmy, exiting.

The beginning, naturally, remains unaltered:

The unpaved road landmarked

with potholes, the provocation of (finally!)

spring. That day, the wind crooned –

treetopstreetopstreetops, while a man

led a calf with an extension cord.

They looked, for all the world

(a stonewall of chipmunks, a forest floor

of hermit thrush and mushrooms,

a mayfly constellation) as if

in search of an outlet, some arboreal current

to prove: also, such things exist.


Poetry: “man by the deli” by Daniel Aristi

he looks like he could use a government blanket una manta del gobierno, por favor

and hot cocoa and

an FBI agent tiki-like by his side reconfortándolo, and some wreckage, but he’s only got

why, the wreckage;

like a baby weeping dentro del vientre in the womb

quiet and still en puro silencio he is crying

so he’s there thinking his way through today’s debris

and he’s expecting no blanket or cocoa –

he’d welcome them, though, sin pedirlos

but then, what?

(Santa Barbara, CA, 21 Feb 2014)

Poetry: “Tea” by Ken Haas

We went to London once a year and,

aside from conjugate acts in wayward places,

there was one thing she loved doing

in that conurbation only, made personal

by her novel use of accoutrements

(strainer, drip tray, sugar tongs, cozy)

and especially how the milk was introduced—

smallest possible liquid dollop

that pricked the fuscous pond,

dove for a skipped heartbeat,

then resurfaced in one of three avatars:

mushroom cloud,

gossamer of cracked glass or,

to her repulsed fascination,

simply itself, the unaltered bolus.

Questioning would be like asking Magritte

what’s with the derby, or how come the apple

and why green.

Actually, someone did ask him. He said

everything we see hides another thing

and we always want to see what’s hidden.