These wet petals of cupped liquor
are kept for myself.
Cast in bright bullets of cerulean;
no more than twelve,
like bitter cellar wine.

Moved against peppery pane,
the vine-ripe rain cries a warm line
behind white curtain,
not unlike the cleanest of flames
drawn up in cuts of chlorine,
feverish,
washing and rushed of a lung.

Curiosity has killed my tongue
with lacy shadows and glassy eyes,
sharp like sea salt.

So, steal high noon into Sicilian quarters
And I am pouring into glass.
Fly-trapped in tea tree cotton candy, nothing
but a pressed daisy. A fractured frieze
Cramping.

A masterpiece.

Rinsing is the evening cool
cutting warm afternoon;
dried, preserved and left lace-curtained
for another month or two.

Maeve Moran is an Irish student currently studying English Literature and Education Studies at Durham University. Maeve is absolutely fascinated by language and words and voice and uses poetry to explain the things she simply cannot express properly any other way.

He invites her, waits on that wood-drawn seat
under their pink floral trees, ancient lamp
and chilly, newspaper air. Il fait doux, so
he leaves his coat thrown over the bench
and greying night leaves milky light
in sheltered wreaths of black-and-white.

The hazy sands in clouded streets trail
their paths for her stilted feet. Her stride
increased and paced for the Champs-Elysées.
She feels the heat. Pleated skirt at her knees,
so unlike her usual things. She wears a blouse,
chemisier; smiles her way, brilliantly. Teeth
white against a red lip and Cleopatra eyes.

Beautiful lies over journeyed lands reveal this
rising evening romance. Her heaving sands,
sunset streets, the lamp still lit, straight shoulders,
sweet golden-grey swaying Cleopatra eyes
realise le beau soleil and carry her to Paris.

Maeve Moran is an Irish student currently studying English Literature and Education Studies at Durham University. Maeve is absolutely fascinated by language and words and voice and uses poetry to explain the things she simply cannot express properly any other way.

I had a dream, and I was on the precipice
The rocks were keen and steep, I clutched them with my life.
Looked below, dread the abyss deep.
The piece of bread seized ‘tween my tattered fingers,
Because I was ‘fraid to let go the crump
Lest all go hungry and vain..
As I moved down edging,
Afraid of the slide and the fall any moment to come
The ground beneath my feet
ne’er reached me soon.

I had a dream, and I saw the dead
Rotten and dried cadaver of men and women
Hung on the string like meat put to dry
Mummies, beyond reckon, and couldn’t know who they where,
and why?

I had a dream, and I saw the deluge.
Of gushing water that took me down
I gasped in the swirl, knowing not what-
the whirl held for me, down under.

I had a dream, and I saw the dawn
raise me in her arms, coddle me long
I woke up in time,
and saw it was morn.

Anilkumar Kurup is a freelance writer, blogger and has now forayed into screenplays. His first screenplay, “Charlis & I’ based on Dr. Shashi Tharoor’s ( Former Under Secretary, United Nations) short story of the same name will soon be made into a film. He is now into his second screenplay. He also is in collaboration with an associate writing dialogues for the latter’s screenplays.

Queen

Rambunctious woman
Your pursuit is unfathomable
Forge your shackles, not into crowns
But into swords
And you will live to see
The world at your feet.

Bullet

No less would I take a bullet for her, she would bear

Witness to a smiling man as she caressed the

Trigger

And blew my mind.

Wildfire

Her lips kissed mine

With thunderous applause

And dressed my mind

In subtle wildfire

Wild eyes

Her wild eyes tamed this heart
Long before I was just someone
She Loved

Vic Meyer is a 22-year-old South African writer living in Paris. An ex-professional rugby union player turned analyst for Stade Français spends every second away from the pitch on writing. He is influenced by the beauty and turmoil in the heart of Africa, and all things to be found there.

maybe

maybe.

maybe there is another home for us. a home a lot like this but instead of a rich blue canopy above it’s a deep glistening golden, like fresh marmalade generously spread over so that every thunderstorm is a saccharine shower.

where grass can grow higher than skyscrapers so that children run barefoot in the summer between their towering emerald blades, singing to the tune of the wind out loud, and the rivers always go upstream because this world doesn’t know the word ‘down’.

a home where stars sizzle out loud instead of shining bright and the sun sings itself to rest and the moon toots his own horn and men and women walk with their hands flat on the ground but birds stand amongst them tall and proud, and on the stoop of a six-dimensonial house shaded by tall grass blades from the sugary rain, maybe in this world you aren’t underground, but sitting on this stoop with me as I rest my pig-tailed head on your dainty shoulders sleepily. maybe that home still feels familiar, because in our home here, the sun has gone down too early and the stars are clouded by confusion and the grass around your tombstone has also somehow died already.

but maybe there’s another home for us.

The Day You Died

The day you died
I made a list
to remember you by
writing down all
that made you, you

Bitter powdered cocoa smell
stirred in with laced tobacco
crescent-like half a smile
loud, cackling, hyena laugh
tall, lanky, binding hugs
flushed hot chocolate skin
the grooves of your glasses
indenting your stubby nose
purpled lips from years of smoking

The day you died
I made a list
to hold all that
you were
but tonight
it feels too light

The teeth violently grind
and I line the green crystals
just like you taught me
neatly in the paper’s fold
licking the line
rounding it into a tube
lighting one end
and exhaling the other
holding the list foolishly
thinking it can hold all of you

The day you died
I scrambled to capture you
shoving you on paper
before you slipped away

The mint plays on my tongue
and the smoke settles deep
I think of bedtime stories
with angels on our shoulders
and godmothers all watching
and late loved ones as stars
away from this world
and out of my reach –
my palm crumples the list
only to let it float right down

The day you died
I thought of how
I could keep you
in this world with me
when all you wanted
to do was leave

But the last of the smoke
pushes out with resistance
I stub the end out on the list
till the blank canvas in the dark
glows eerily from the center
with a scattering of ambers
kissing and igniting the paper
and for a second I wonder
if the sequins of stars above
are the millions of cigarettes
you stub through the sky every night
just to keep us in your sight

‘An Ode to the Galaxy of Smoke’ is a collection of (unpublished) poems I wrote in honour of my late brother who died of suicide last year. Although I have been expressing myself via writing for over 17 years, my style and connection to it has only strengthened over the past year. Poetry and prose have both been my aids in every journey I have ever been on, and this submission reflects the roles they play in my life, through three different pieces.

Editor’s Note: The short story from this collection, “There’s No Secret” is scheduled for publication on December 15.

Harlem, does it fester like a sore or sugar over like a syrupy sweet?

Monday through Friday is Harlem after Langston Hughes. A school teacher
questions, what happens to a dream deferred? We quick         rising suns and gap
teeth begging for dictionaries. There are bones fading in the cement
on Lenox Avenue. We are stray bullet bodies praying the safe
arrival of dream despite our sable skins. Us girls fall in love

with the first woman since our mamas and argue about whether
it is pronounced An-jill-o or On-ja-loo, who laugh like she got gold
mines diggin’ in her backyard. We are spread chests and small hips, we think us
women for the first time. Phenomenal in peter pan collars and
pleated skirts, milk mouths, and box braids. Saturday night is 101 West

131st Street, my mother smells of sweetened rum, spritz, maryjane, and
lavender perfume. Us with bellies full of oodles of noodles and oil-damp
pork chops. Lil Kim reminds the women         not to worry
about a man, cause he      aint worried          about them. The women say
amen, stomp their heels into the floor, and squat. Thighs gaping, and tongues hang

from the painted lips. They rap as if Kim be kin or a god. When they leave,
pile into taxi cabs for the club. Us girls are in the mirrors—small
thighs gaping and kool aid tongues hang from our lips, rapping or praying.
Sunday morning is Antioch Baptist Church and Sarah is
a testimony-throat, she a biscuit and molasses ballad. Lord do it

for me – then, a riot of black hands wind amongst the stained glass windows.
You’ve read the story about the blind man and one day he heard Jesus
was passing by. He said, lay your hand on me. The holy spirit is
a plague. Here, a collection plate of praise, prophetic patois heavy
feet on blood themed rugs and we restart. Bullet bodies budding allay.

Shaina Phenix is a poet, educator, and Virginia Tech MFA poetry candidate from Harlem, New York. Before pursuing her MFA she taught middle and high school humanities for two years.

There was a night when friends were near
and, Oh Christ, we laughed as the jokes were told.
Funny quick lines of turned-around wit,
long rambling stories of salesmen weary and maidens willing.

We drank beers and smoked cigarettes, one after another
and the laughs were like that, easy, one after another.

Later, the talk turned sad, someone would lose a mother,
a child was ill and the Flanagans would be transferred to Saudi Arabia.

When the evening was over, we remarked upon the fun.
Nothing was done or undone, the world remained the same,
but God, did we laugh that night.

Elsa Bonstein is the only child of Finnish immigrants. She grew up on a farm in rural Maryland where she devoured books in between farm chores. She dreamed of becoming a poet someday. It’s never too late to late to try.

I wish Miss Hooker could marry Jesus
and that they’d adopt me so I’d be
the son of the Son of God, she’s my Sun
-day School teacher is Miss Hooker but she’s
25 and Jesus is so old He’s
immortal, maybe even God’s own age
if in fact He’s God to boot, some folks be
-lieve that though I’m not always sure what we
hold to in our church, at least what I hold,
I only think about religion one
day out of every seven and if
I thought about it every day of
the week I guess I’d be dead, my body
anyway, my soul would be in Heaven
or, more likely, Hell, I sin a good deal
for just ten years old. Then there’s the matter

of my parents, they’d have to give me up
for adoption, though I suspect Jesus
could force ’em to, which is kosher with me,
my folks don’t even come to church, they sleep
late and sometimes when I return for lunch
they’re still in bed and they’re not too pretty
when they finally come forth, Lazarus
-like you might say, smelling musty and slur
-ring their speech and frowning and sounding un
-grateful they they’re not really dead. Maybe
Miss Hooker and Jesus could have other

children, not adopted like me but from
their own bodies so I could have brothers
and sisters even though they’re not really
related to me but then again may
-be they are, Love thy neighbor as thyself
and all that Bible-jazz, maybe even
Miss Hooker’s related to me, not my
mother or sister or aunt or cousin but
if there truly is a human family
the maybe we’re a lot closer than I
realized, and I’d like to marry her
myself although I wouldn’t cut Jesus
out for anything but I guess in Sun
-day School I learned today, at least I figured,
all by my lonesome that if everyone’s kin
then it’s okay to marry someone of
your own flesh. Or something like that. Maybe
my confusion is the Crucifixion’s
purpose, not that I’m not still bewildered
but if I have to die, which I do, then
I won’t have to die for being baffled.
So I made lunch for me and Mother and
Father but for them it’s what they call brunch.
And it satisfied–they cleaned their headless
plates. When they went back to bed, I joined them.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

One day Jesus is coming back is what
they swear at Sunday School and Amen and
Hallelujah and Amen-and-Amen
but No man knoweth the hour and neither
does no woman, any woman I mean,
there’s no mention of children there and all
I can remember of kids is Suffer
the little children to come unto Me
but why should they make me suffer to get
me to go–Hell, I’m suffering as it
is so I asked Miss Hooker to explain,
she’s our Sunday School teacher and she laughed
and then smiled, I think I would’ve smiled and
then laughed but what do I know and then she
said Jesus doesn’t mean suffer like you
think He does but I’m happy, Gale, that you
brought it up so that I can clarify
it for your classmates next week, “clarify”
means wriggle off the hook, I guess, then she

went on to explain did Miss Hooker that
Jesus meant encourage the children to
go to Him and forbid them not which is
fancy for and don’t try to stop ’em, there’s
nothing to fear about the Son of God
unless you’re a devoted sinner and
deny Him not only three times but many
and never ask Him to forgive you to
boot, then you’re in a Hell of a jam says
Miss Hooker, though she didn’t say Hell and
cursing’s a sin, I may not know about
what’s good but I do know something about
sin, I kind of pride myself on that, I
guess I learned it the hard way and I’d learn
it to Miss Hooker if I thought that she
was mature enough to handle it and
come to think of it what about Jesus,
how could He know about sin unless He
committed a few, too? Miss Hooker said

that I’m coming close to blasphemy so
I should go home and pray starting after
lunch and not letting up until supper
and after supper though she didn’t men
-tion dessert I should take it up again,
prayer that is, And while you’re at it, Gale,
she said, try taking up the Cross as well.
I said Yes ma’am but I haven’t got one,
a cross I mean and as for taking it
up I’m not even sure what that means, I
thought that it’s the Cross that took up Jesus.
I was halfway on my walk homeward
when that came to me, I almost doubled
back to tell Miss Hooker but I was so
hungry I had to live by bread alone.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.

In Sunday School class I see Miss Hooker
–and God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost
though I don’t really see them except in
Miss Hooker herself. That is, God made her
and Jesus saved her and the Holy Ghost
inspires her to be the best damn teacher
I ever had. And the most beautiful,
red hair and green eyes and all those freckles.
And she can tell a Bible story like
nobody’s business. I like the one where
Moses parts the Red Sea and Pharoah sends
his charioteers across to slay them
but the slaves cross over just in time and
then the Sea folds in upon itself and
all the bad guys drown. The movie’s good, too.
But Miss Hooker tells it like she was there.
I never thought I’d bite my nails over
the Bible but I never thought I’d like

God, either. He scares me. He’s too much like
death and I sure as Hell don’t want to die
but if you’re going to go to Heaven
you just about have to. I guess it’s like
jumping into the pool when the water’s
too cold but if you’re going to swim then
there’s no other way. Father jumped from planes
in the Big One, World War 2. I asked him
how he was brave enough to do it. Well,
he said, I’d gone to all that trouble to
pack my parachute and it would have been
a shame not to use it. Now he teaches
geography, so there you go. He met
Mother in Atlanta after the war.
Mother was dancing professionally.
I ask her what kind of dances she did
but she’s never told me. I ask Father

but he just smiles. It’s more like a goofy
grin. Then he takes off his eyeglasses and wipes
his eyes and puts them on again, his glasses
I mean, and clears his throat and asks me, Son,
did I ever tell you what I did in
the war? After Sunday School is over
I’m just getting warmed up. Last Sunday I
waited until my classmates left the room
and went up to Miss Hooker in her chair
where she was rearranging the bookmarks
in her Bible and said, Miss Hooker, I
got something I wanna tell ya, and she
looked up at me and into my eyes and
I mean with her eyes, too, and smiled and asked
What is it, Gale honey, so I looked down
as if I was saying the Lord’s Prayer,
leading the class in it, maybe, and saw

my Sunday shoes, black and shiny and two
years old. I only wear them once a week
so if I die as I’m walking back home
they’ll be good enough to be buried in,
and said, I love you, but she took it wrong,
I meant Sweet Romance but she just meant love
like you get from God and parents and aunts
and Santa and your dog and maybe your
cat and your favorite stuffed animal,
not that I have one anymore, only
a G. I. Joe, and he’s not a doll, he’s
something else. I forget. Then she stood up
and kissed me but not on the lips. Goodbye
I said, and turned and walked right out the door

hating her guts. So what if I’m just 10
and she’s 25? We might’ve worked it out.
Maybe I should wait until I’m 16
and try again, though she’ll be halfway
dead, 31. That my mother’s age now.
So I guess there’s more than one way to make
a boy a man even though I wonder
what that other way is. That other way
has something to do with having babies.
I wonder how that’s done. My folks don’t know
or they don’t want to say. It’s a secret.
I might ask Miss Hooker next week if I
come back–she kind of embarrassed me or
maybe she’s just playing hard to get so
there’s a purpose for all my suffering.
Last night I dreamt I died and Miss Hooker
showed up at my funeral and cried and
cried and sputtered, Gale, it was only you.
Then as I watched from Heaven the police
took her to the pokey. I don’t know why.
That’s when I woke up. And I’m still waking.

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in several countries and is the author of three books of poetry. He has taught university English in the US, China, and Palestine.