A Magazine of Many Arts

Gerri Leen

You, tin soldier
Who are lauded
For your immobility
You, who stood and stared
As if I didn't already get enough
Of that from Jack
You, who fell for me
With no words, no laughter
No...lightness
I'm paper, dainty as air
I'm made to dance
To stir, to flit, to fly
And you're made to stay,
To plant, to squat and guard
And never let me go

I was happy when Jack
Pushed you out the window
Him, I knew how to manage
Your creeping solidity
Terrified me far more
Than his black dust
But then you returned
Stinking of fish
Your flat, dead eyes
Triumphant as if you
Had done something—anything
Nothing, you do nothing
And they call that steadfast

I thank whatever deity
Protects paper creatures
Grateful that you don't burn
You melt, like snow and ice
Things that ruin a dance
As your body turned into a
Choking metal heart
I was freed in a burst of flame
They make paperweights out
Of such things as you are now
While I am a wisp of ash
A cinder, dancing on the wind

Cameron N. Coulter

The ghost of the Carmelite convent never really wanted to be a nun. She had never made a 
vow of silence either, almost most people assumed she had. She had wanted to do what she 
was put on Earth to do, she wanted to share her soul while whispering under the starlight, but 
the other nuns were bad listeners. The priest cut her off during confession. One time, he fell 
asleep.

The ghost of the Carmelite convent was a perfectly chatty soul, to be honest. It's just, no one
ever stopped to listen. Folks always leaned across the room into another conversation. Even 
before she was a ghost, people found it remarkably easy to look right through her.

When the ghost of the Carmelite convent became a ghost, no one noticed. She had been 
dead for six cold days before they discovered the body. The truth is, she had been a ghost 
long before her heart stopped beating. No one paid attention at the funeral, and the rest of 
the day continued business as usual.

I hear she still haunts the benches and bell towers of the convent, just waiting for someone to
speak with. Once you get used to the cold spots, I hear she's really very sweet. You will go 
talk with her, won't you?

Anthony DeGregorio

Ghosts in the windows of apartment buildings
Along the Metro North Harlem Railroad Line
No longer look up or scramble to spread the curtains
For a better view with every rumble of each passing train,
Or to scare a weary commuter, or the 
Weekend passengers heading to the city 
For a play and dinner perhaps, maybe just a stroll
Through Times Square to observe lives and sights
They would never see back home in Valhalla, NY,
An hour north of the city, who may casually glance
Upward in the darkened direction of a broken window, through its
Spiderweb of cracks, and into a sagging cobweb of time-
Infested silence, catching a hollow eye socket or two 
Of the lonely apparitions.  
They have grown bored with life they no longer possess,
And remain suspended before TVs
Tuned to seventy-year-old movies
Whose stars are as dead as they are.
Translucent couch potatoes, their
Skinless feathery fingers 
Attached to complex remote controls
In futile attempts to depress the proper buttons,
As they drop Princess Leia vinyl wine glasses of Scotch, or
Neon-red Elmo Sippy Cups of vitamin-rich carrot juice
They’ve forgotten how to grasp or even drink from,
Struggling with anything tangible in the urban morning darkness
Of abandoned rooms and vacant lofts.  An orange aura of 
Juice-infused mist veils the simmering air.  A warm carotene pulp oozes, 
Puddles on the floor, condenses where their feet once felt the plush carpets and 
Stained hardwood of the living.  Exasperated, they head to windowless bathrooms 
To squat and rise repeatedly upon sinks and wicker hampers, their vacuousness 
Twerking to the moist drone of lavatory Muzak from ventilation fans.  They 
Long for an assumption into the fetid rapture of humidity’s exhaust 
Before finally giving up after unsuccessfully trying to flush themselves 
Down high efficiency toilets, and squeeze through hair & scum-clogged 
Drains, sadly unnoticed amid the uncanny melancholy of afterlife.

Betty Hufford

When the aliens pick their pets,
they won’t choose me.
I am no pup
with Jack Russell energy.
 
Despite frequent brushing,
I shed prodigiously.
I’ve been known to snap,
talk politics around me.
 
I dropped out of obedience school,
having laid down long enough.
I do enjoy a walk
but abhor the leash.
 
Perhaps there’ll be a no-kill shelter
run by some lonely ET
who finds me cute
in an other-worldly way.
 
I’ll nest in worn blankets until
I bite the hand that feeds me.
One small bite for mankind.

Shveta Thakrar and Brittany Warman

For Sara Cleto

On dappled wings,
Dusted with snow, with secrets,
She drifts through the dreaming,
Through mists to home.
 
The stars blink, placid,
As she plucks them for her feast.
Hungry her belly, hungry her heart,
She gulps down light like berries.
 
It is hard as tree bark, as unforgiving,
This journey of wind and wonder.
The owl maid bared her truth once, twice, thrice,
Unfurling her majestic cloak of feathers.
 
But so few men dare to see true,
Past the plumage they might snatch,
The secrets to expose, the soul to ensnare,
Into the rich depths of shadow and spark.
 
And so she leaves offerings for a peaceful solitude,
For freedom: silver coins and blue shells
Meant for witch goddesses and fairy godmothers,
Quiet prayers for indifference, for strength.
 
The owl maid soars on, wings embracing the sky.
Fools are soon forgotten, even friends,
All left to mutter of the one who stole away,
While she seeks out new hearths, new homes.
 
She is free, she is whole.
Her soul needs nothing but
A feathered nest, an adventure,
Stardust and stories.
 
But long nights can still grow lonely—
And dreams of gentle fingertips on down,
Gentle laughter, the man in the moon,
Become whispered spells in the dark.
 
What lips could shape a spell for her,
She who is wild in ways, fierce in will?
What heart would not quail before her mysteries
But only ever extend a kind hand?
 
And then, one summer night,
Sunshine echoing in each star,
The owl maid opens her eyes
And discovers an old, dear friend beside her.
 
Here is one who knows her truly
As she knows him.
Here is one who knows the spells,
Has only to speak them at last.
 
“I know owl wives are rare,”
He says with a smile,
“Too bold for domesticity,
Too enchanted to hold in your hand.
 
“But if you will fly with me
On nights like these, and nights darker,
I will give you adventures, stories, and stardust.
I will help you build your nest of feathers.”
 
The owl maid gazes as only owls can,
Finally seeing the magic right before her eyes.
She plucks from her cloak a single spotted plume
And places it firmly in his palm.