CONFESSION

by Susan Barry-Schulz

The life of Flaco, the Eurasian eagle-owl who escaped from the Central Park Zoo, and who died this past Friday outside a building on the Upper West Side, can be divided into two main chapters. Chapter 1 spanned nearly thirteen years, mostly in the zoo—first in the Temperate Territory near the snow leopards and red pandas, and later opposite the loud chiming of the Delacorte Clock. The second started when Flaco spotted a hole in his cage, evidently made by a vandal, and departed. Flaco, who’d been born in captivity and whose species is not native to North America, swooped and roosted in Central Park, taught himself how to hunt—stunning scientists—and lived more than a year on his own before wildlife rescuers found him unresponsive after an apparent collision with a building on West Eighty-ninth Street. —The New Yorker, February 26, 2024.  Photo: Flaco the owl perched on a water tower above a building in Manhattan in December. Credit: Paul Beiboer via The New York Times, February 26, 2024

The night I let Flaco the long eared Eurasian eagle-owl out of his enclosure at the Central Park Zoo I was as high as a red-tailed hawk. Earlier I had also downed two long-expired White Claws (one Blackberry and one Mango) and a bottle of Blue Moon from the back of the fridge because I was cleaning it out and I hate letting things go to waste. It was cold and dark and there we were, two creatures with eyes, just staring at each other and breathing in and out. After some time, it became apparent which one of us was the superior being. I was alone, which wasn’t unusual, but wished there was someone around to help me, which was. I hopped the fence no problem, but that stainless steel mesh was no joke. I stayed for a while, hoping the hole I had cut was big enough, but he didn’t budge. I kind of respected that. Later I followed his travels on @ManhattanBirdAlert and other birder accounts that I found by searching his name. At first, Flaco stayed in the park, testing his wings, learning to hunt, hanging out in his favorite oak tree at 104th Street. Then he expanded his reach, exploring the UES, eating rats and pigeons and other small animals, peering into people’s apartments and frequenting fire escapes, construction equipment and air conditioners. There was something about the sound of his hoots—almost like the sound you could make by blowing across the top of a glass bottle—echoing down from the rooftop water towers of Manhattan that made you feel lonely and comforted at the same time. I don’t know. Anyway, now he’s gone. I am responsible either for his death or for the best year of his life. Possibly both. Fly on, brother.

Author's Note: I assure you this is a persona poem.

Susan Barry-Schulz grew up in a house full of books just outside of Buffalo, NY. She is a poet, collage artist and disabled Physical Therapist. Her work has appeared in SWWIM, Shooter Literary Magazine, Bending Genres, B O D Y, Leon Literary Review, West Trestle Review, Stone Canoe, Okay Donkey, and in many other print and online journals and anthologies. 

A BULLET CONFESSES

by Sarah E. Colona

The 12 victims of the Virginia Beach mass shooting: LaQuita C. Brown, Ryan Keith Cox, Tara Welch Gallagher, Mary Louise Gayle, Alexander Mikhail Gusev, Joshua O. Hardy, Michelle "Missy" Langer, Richard H. Nettleton, Katherine A. Nixon, Christopher Kelly Rapp, Herbert "Bert" Snelling, Robert "Bobby" Williams

unwelcome as a thunderclap
no storm in the forecast
or that’s the printed headline

wherever humans gather
where hands stretch Velcro or loop shoelaces
classroom, church, amusement park

instill mastery of the tourniquet
combat American love
of gun metaphor and euphemism

do not soften my path to water: shower, spray
trauma shreds flesh
blood loss floods a morgue

my name began as small ball
now watch me reduce
one nation to thoughts and prayers

Sarah E. Colona is the author of three poetry collections: Hibernaculum (Gold Wake Press, 2013), Thimbles (dancing girl press, 2012) and That Sister (dancing girl press, 2016).

THE PERSONA POEM HOLDS AN EMERGENCY PRESS CONFERENCE REGARDING ITS LEAKED NUDES

by J. Bradley

Male Nude by Roz McQuillan

You’re jealous of the way I make
an empty bottle of merlot a bearskin rug,
how the crook of my tongue incites stampedes.

You’re designed for, fueled by pollution.
You require the excuse of a god to shed sin,
then wag your fingers like thrown stones.

Please, pick up your jaws.
You’ll catch open jean flies that way.


J. Bradley is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominated writer whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals including decomP, Hobart, and Prairie Schooner. He was the Interviews Editor of PANK, the Flash Fiction Editor of NAP, and the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle. He is the author of the poetry collection Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009), the novella Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2012), and the graphic poetry collection The Bones of Us (YesYes Books, 2014), illustrated by Adam Scott Mazer. He is the curator of the Central Florida reading series There Will Be Words.