MAGICIANS

by Katherine West

At first they just let us out for Christmas 

like Eleanor of Aquitaine 

in Lion in Winter

We were a bit cranky 

(like Eleanor of Aquitaine)

and it didn’t go well

Nevertheless, they kept trying 

and many called for our presence 

at Easter 

We sat between chicks 

and bunnies 

and tried to look fluffy

Better this time

as long as we didn’t speak 

or bare our teeth while eating chocolate rabbits 

Soon birthdays were demanded

like clowns or magicians 

no party was complete without us 

until someone pulled a baby 

out of a hat 

(instead of a scarf or a white rabbit) 

pink and plump 

and lisping mama

so that everyone could hear 

They had forgotten 

that we 

could do that 

They tried to lock us up  

citing the Constitution 

and the Bible 

but we had learned a thing or two 

from our time 

in the limelight 

When they came to take us away (again) 

we put our hands over our heads and clapped

like Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter 

We vanished 

(like Dumbledore)

but no one said we had “class”

Hidden in plain sight now 

we walk the streets barefoot 

leaving bloodprints behind us 

impossible not to follow 

We magnetize the races 

like Joan of Arc in Joan of Arc

Katherine West lives in Southwest New Mexico, near Silver City. She has written three collections of poetry: The Bone Train, Scimitar Dreams, and Riddle, as well as one novel, Lion Tamer. Her poetry has appeared in journals such as Writing in a Woman's Voice, Lalitamba, Bombay Gin, The New Verse News, Tanka Journal, Splash! and Eucalypt, Writers Resist, and Feminine Collective. The New Verse News nominated her poem "And Then the Sky" for a Pushcart Prize in 2019. In addition she has had poetry appear as part of art exhibitions at the Light Art Space gallery in Silver City New Mexico, the Tambaugh Gallery in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and at the Windsor Museum in Windsor, Colorado.

FOR EMMA GONZALEZ

by Anna M. Evans





This girl looks like a younger Joan of Arc,
whose mission, burning in her, was the spark
that helped to light her nation in the dark.
This girl looks like a younger Joan of Arc.

Her mission, burning in her, is the spark
that kindles the crowd to chant, Never again!
The NRA can’t stop this hurricane.
Her mission, burning in her, is the spark.

The crowd is solid, chanting, Never again!
They’re marching with their families for our lives,
and for the dead, whose spirit still survives.
The crowd is solid, chanting, Never again!

We’re marching with our families for our lives,
led by this girl, a younger Joan of Arc,
showing us all the way to leave our mark:
by marching with our families for our lives.

This girl, though young, is like her: Joan of Arc.
Her mission, burning in her, is the spark
to light and lead our nation out the dark.
This girl’s a heroine, our Joan of Arc.

Anna M. Evans’ poems have appeared in the Harvard Review, Atlanta Review, Rattle, American Arts Quarterly, and 32 Poems. She gained her MFA from Bennington College, and is the Editor of the Raintown Review. Recipient of Fellowships from the MacDowell Artists' Colony and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and winner of the 2012 Rattle Poetry Prize Readers' Choice Award, she currently teaches at West Windsor Art Center and Rowan College at Burlington County. Her new collection Under Dark Waters: Surviving the Titanic is out now from Able Muse Press, and her sonnet collection Sisters & Courtesans is available from White Violet Press.

A MAN BURNED ALIVE IS REINCARNATED AS A FIREFIGHTER

by Jay Sizemore

Ocean of Fire by Gate to Nowhere at DeviantArt

Kinship with ash,
he once wept smoking a cigarette.
Why do my tears smell like gasoline?

Nightmares in orange,
he’s sweat enough to saturate cities.
Sometimes, he dreams he is Joan of Arc.

Skin charred like paper,
blood still escapes
through the cracks, a dark syrup.

His armor gets heavy,
breath shallow in the smoke,
searching for survivors,

he loses his voice,
feels his ashen jaw come unhinged,
remembers the prayer he muttered

before first touching the flame:
Let me live again
as an ocean avenging an effigy.


Jay Sizemore brought the high-five out of retirement. He did not graduate from college, and is personal foot masseuse to his lovely wife. He knows the words to almost every Ryan Adams song. You can find his work in places online and in print. He lives in Nashville, TN, where music goes to die. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.