THE ULTIMATE DOT

by Julia Bair

Ukrainian word for bread: хліб [khlib]

friends say: 

you will write about completely other things now  

the war blanks flowers and butterflies 

it blanks the old books and new plays 

blanks the birds 

blanks men

it blanks hunger   

hungry people share their last crumbs with birds 

becoming the birds themselves 

disgusted to share their bread and life with occupiers 

and fall into the ground as crumbs 

instead of the grain 

to sprout over the “i” in every staff of life 

as the ultimate dot

Author’s note: Russians have no letter “i” in their alphabet.

Julia Bair is a Ukrainian poet, essayist and cultural critic writing on various topics, especially literature, fine art, cinema, and theater. Born and bred in a small town close to the Subcarpathian foothills and educated in the big city of Lviv at Ivan Franko National University, Julia travelled across Europe and lived in the USA for some years.

OF SNAKES AND STONE

by Olivia Fortier

 

“Self-portrait in the style of Medusa” by Andrea Mantegna c. 1474 Uffizi Gallery. 
Photo via Web Gallery of Art

 

Though afraid of the water, 

my mother hand-scooped the lake 

to wet my skin before she blew up 

water wings, and slid them to the tops

of my arms. 

 

I floated on the surface of a calm lake, 

the flotsam of a failed marriage;

my father had sided with the man 

who’d raped my mother, when he, 

the rapist, denied any wrongdoing, 

as rapists often do, and it was then 

my mother lost her head.

 

From the water, I watched my mother 

walk the beach in search of driftwood 

for garden ornaments. An hour later, 

her pile was small, her harvest thin, 

so I swam back to shore to help her, 

my skin burned from the sun’s reflection 

on the lake’s mirror top. Seeing her error, 

my mother glossed me with sunscreen. 

Then, stony-faced, as single mothers 

must be at times, doing everything alone, 

she removed my wings, deflated them, 

and withdrew into herself.

 

When it comes to driftwood, 

gnarls and knots are lovely decorative 

features. Dead tree roots are rare finds; 

initially disturbing to look at, yes, but 

given a couple coats of shellac to bring 

out their natural beauty, they transform 

into octopi, or staghorn coral. Or, as 

my mother explained to me as I grew,

the rape survivor Medusa’s head of snakes—

 

snakes being her punishment for Poseidon's

assault against her body with his venomous 

viper; the rape turned any future hopes she had 

for normalcy to stone, which is to say, as Medusa

lied under his shadow, Poseidon projected himself 

onto her—a terrifying appearance, a petrifying gaze.

Then she was called monster while he continued 

to reign freely. Any man who slayed Medusa 

with his long, sharp blade would be called hero, 

and brave; her severed head and deadened mind, 

a trophy. But until then, she was forced to withdraw 

from society and live alone in a cave,

 

for shame. Before Mother died, she told me nothing 

has changed for women, and that I am Medusa’s daughter, 

and that statistically speaking, I will also become

Medusa.

 

I am Medusa.

Olivia Fortier’s work has appeared in multiple literary journals. She is currently a Master of Fine Arts candidate.

BATHING BEAUTIES

by Karen Olshansky

I’ve always despised Martha Stewart,

her smug, “I can cook anything from scratch, 

decorate a table with weeds from my

yard,”and, her hints:

add a Lazy Susan to your fridge,

label everything,

make a triple fudge multilayered cake

while dictating an article on preventing mildew,

create a blender smoothie from 

home grown vegetables,

and, most importantly,

how to be the perfect prison inmate by teaching yoga.

My first swimsuit was a

two piece blue stripped beauty

with a skirt bottom.

I loved it, the only problem was that after a hard afternoon

of playing in the shallow river waters, 

my top would

drift upwards to reveal tiny nipples, my mother would say,

“just take off your top” but that was bad advice for a 

self conscious little girl.

at 16 I wore a one piece tank suit with four buttons on 

the front outlining my breasts,

my mother thought I looked wow, 

I felt that my thighs were fat.

At 26, I had a grown-up two piece with a skirt bottom.

After a dip in the ocean a much older male relative said,

“You are a fine figure of a woman” which made me 

feel slightly dirty, never did wear that outfit  again.

Now when I go swimming, I hide accordion skin,

vein lined legs, and falling body parts

by wearing a long sleeve caftan

that drapes towards my ankles.

Martha Stewart, who, at 81, throws her perfectly coiffed hair

around like she is making a Clairol commercial, dons white (white!)

bathing attire that shows

the full top half her breasts. 

My grandmother and her friends would go swimming 

unashamed of the blue streaks threatening to

escape from their legs, belly fat and breasts hanging low 

as ripe peaches on a tree.

They never heard of Martha Stewart.

Karen Olshansky lives in Marin County California with her husband and a well fed Koi named Pickle Face. She writes poetry in order to maintain her sanity. Her work has appeared in The Literary Nest, Tuck Magazine and the anthologies Lingering in the Margins, Life in Ten Minutes, Unspoken, and The James River Anthology.

COMPASSION FATIGUE

by Sister Lou Ella Hickman

cartoon by David Sipress

what is not in the news

is the invisible… 

those who change the channel

when the nightly report begins

announcing again the pop pop pop pop

and showing the single file

scurry under the hovering helicopter eye

this is not unconcern

but rather

the bone weary dailyness

hearing another father’s choking voice

seeing another mother’s blank stare

more children, more bodies riddled with lead

please 

feel no guilt 

for you want to honor their story of stolen presence

when you listen and watch

yet tonight 

you just can’t

and the news won’t tell you—

be kind to yourself in your sorrow

 

Sister Lou Ella has a master’s in theology from St. Mary’s University in San Antonio and is a former teacher and librarian. She is a certified spiritual director as well as a poet and writer. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as America, US Catholic, Commonweal, The Christian Century, Presence, Prism, and several anthologies. She was a Pushcart nominee in 2017 and 2020. “Chavah’s Daughters Speak,” five poems from her book she: robed and wordless set to music by James Lee III, has been performed in New York City and Cleveland, Ohio.

AND SOON RELIEF

by tom bauer

United States Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib has introduced a resolution to recognise the Palestinian Nakba, the term used to describe the forced displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians before and during the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. —AlJazeera, May 11, 2023

The United Nations for the first time on Monday officially commemorated the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in the war surrounding the creation of Israel 75 years ago, drawing a sharp response from the Israeli ambassador to the world body. —The New York Times, May 15, 2023

how long the shame of saying words all wrong

not knowing who is right or wrong in harm.

how long to never criticize for fear
of self-betrayal, life, and friend-betrayal,
the edge betrayals of a world of stone.

the concrete streets and building fronts are full.
emptiness is everywhere in loneliness.

whatever loss there is, life returns in full.
spring flowers come again in spring for all.
it is but one promise of being in life.

we must not waste it all, we cannot waste
it all, we dare not waste it all again.

a moving field of faces growing warm
in sunlight, yellow sand, dusky nights, rain
refreshing all the land, crumbly when
we climb the yielding earth with fresh roots.

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

SCHOOLYARD ATTRITION

by Zackary Ross Wiggs

Illustration by Golden Cosmos, The New Yorker, May 25, 2018

Texas alone has suffered 17 mass shootings this year and now lawmakers propose ‘battlefield trauma care’ facilities in schools. —The Guardian, May 13, 2023

Cut the flagpoles in two,

since they're at half-mast 

all year round

We could use the extra steel

to make more guns.

Build another Arlington,

for the brave school kids

gunned down in math class.

Hallowed ground filled,

with children full of hollow-points.

Too many thousand yard stares.

Bottlecap metals sewn on chests,

of children with kindergarten war stories.

Senior trips to graveside services,

for those gunned down at recess.

Zackary Ross Wiggs is a writer from Southeast Kansas. A recent creative writing master's graduate, when he isn't writing he is usually found absorbed in some show or book. His works have also been published in Unstamatic Press, Shacklebound Press, and The Joplin Toad. 

OLD MAN IN THE BUNKER

by Robert Darken

Five-year-old Vladimir Putin with his mother, Maria, in July 1958.

You too were once a child.

Learned to lace boots, the rabbit round the tree.

Slung school books in a sack, 

crunched snow underfoot along the river,  

the Neva black enough to swallow dawn.

Rain dripped from the larches.  

There was only you–

your brothers ghosts before you were born.

One died under siege,

a casualty of co-conspirators:

Nazis, starvation, diphtheria.

You learned German, loved the clarity of Marx.

When the many act as one, they are an unstoppable engine.

Be sure to bury dissenters.

The bond of unity is their blood. 

Your grandfather knew who to serve:  

in the scullery, spiraling skin

from potatoes, simmering Stalin’s own soup.  

And now there is you: eyes lidded like hangman’s hoods, 

a smile like razor wire. Fingers that drum 

commands to missiles and men.

There: another apartment block, its insides clawed open.

There: the wet pavement, the body of a mother 

in her bright kerchief,

Beside her the body of a child, 

rain falling on its open hand.

Originally from the Midwest, Robert Darken now resides in Connecticut, where he teaches high-school English. His poems have appeared in One Art, The Orchards, and Red Eft Review.