Poetry Summer 2015 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover Hannah Lansburgh
Jennifer Leigh Stevenson
For Your Own Good
& other poems
Marianne S. Johnson
Tortious
& other poems
Kate Magill
Nest Study #1
& other poems
Karen Kraco
Studio
& other poems
Matt Daly
Beneath Your Bark
& other poems
Paulette Guerin
Emergence
& other poems
Hank Hudepohl
Crossed Words
& other poems
Alma Eppchez
At the Back of the Road Atlas
& other poems
Jim Burrows
At the Megachurch
& other poems
Rachel Stolzman Gullo
Lioness
& other poems
Yana Lyandres
New York Transplant
& other poems
Heather Katzoff
Start
& other poems
Tom Yori
Cana
& other poems
Barth Landor
What Is Left
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
Never So Still
& other poems
George Longenecker
Polar Bears Drowning
& other poems
Ben Cromwell
Sometimes a Flock of Birds
& other poems
Robert Mammano
the way the ground shakes
& other poems
Janet Smith
Rocket Ship
& other poems
Gina Loring
Dementia
& other poems
J. Lee Strickland
Minoan Elegy
& other poems
Toni Hanner
Catching the Baby
& other poems
Gina Loring
Dementia
the women. the women. the women.
the babies. the babies. the babies.
How lucky not to remember
the mountain of missed milestones.
The spirit spark dusted over and dimmed.
How lucky to melt into yourself like that,
the entire muddy footprint path erased.
In lucid moments
few and far between
when the room comes into focus,
you remember me.
A stranger with your eyes.
You know
the straw I hold to your lips
the lullabies I sing low
the monologue prayer hymns I write in your palm:
redemption.
His
Here to see your father?
I ask how she knows.
You look just like him.
She waves her clipboard,
motions for me to follow.
It takes three nurses to administer the medication today.
He is a restless windstorm trying to break free.
Daddy, I say, sing with me.
I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield
Down by the river side, down by the river side, down by the river side
The silver smooth of the needle shines like a tiny skyscraper.
He meets its eye in resignation, watches it disappear into his arm.
I’ve always been the type to avert the eyes,
learned early not to look.
I don’t remember the pinch of the needle sliding through skin
I don’t remember the blood draining from vein to tube
I don’t remember the waiting room or the walk back to the car
all I remember is the Polaroid of him
protocol for paternity testing, verify identity.
I was ten
and already a man had ripped apart the ribcage,
sliced my heart open
just to see.
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
The nurses exit the room.
For now, their job is done.
Eyes closed, he claps his hands to the beat.
We sing.
Our Last Days
I. Monday, April 14th
Convalescent homes
house blank stares where
urine stank and ammonia air
fistfight florescent lights
straining to see
the million memories
suspended from the stucco ceiling
prayers scattered everywhere like rogue shooting stars,
dying as they soar.
A backwards culture we must be
leaving our elders to endless claustrophobic days and cherry Jell-O.
II. Tuesday, May 20th
My voice dangles mute from my neck
as I wipe the running from his nose
try to console the boy inside his eyes.
Sometimes he recognizes me
always meets my gaze at least once during the visit
the illusive layered dimension is lifted
together we march this sorrowful slow dance
to music we cannot remember
while earthly things like apologies and birthdays
spin weightless around us.
I want to relieve him. I cry into his chest,
savor the gift of time like a peasant at the Queen’s feet.
Wish him a good journey, free him from himself.
III. Wednesday, June 11th
Morning.
We’re calling to inform you that the patient has expired.
As if he were a quart of milk.
I had seen him on Saturday, sang “His Eye is on the Sparrow,”
held his warm hand, long brown fingers
against the smaller beige version, mine.
The three days between Saturday and Wednesday
trampled me, a stampede of sorrow.
Rushed to the mirror to look at him in my face.
Angry fireflies
Traumatic experiences do not dissolve in the wind,
sweep away like dandelion petals
they do not eat themselves for dinner
disappear, a gruesome sliver
they like to hang around
pacing like an alligator in an elevator,
a swarm of angry fireflies,
spelling out the same story in the sky each night
intrusive visitors who climb in through windows, defecate on dreams
blues and greens is the song they sing
when you are in a yellow mood
admiring the moon
they tip toe in through the back door and hijack your laughter
lift your eyelids to paint a dull hue
force you to look through fun house mirrors
long after the circus has left town
being angry with god will
get you nowhere on a fast train
after the halo of stars has stopped windmilling around your head
and your face stings like a cement wall has kissed you hard and long
and you try to get up but can not make your body move
just when the world is coming back into focus
and your ribs are kicked in
the train will arrive shiny and smooth
serving complimentary champagne and warm croissants
the window seat view will be beautiful
you will have time to replay every moment
a swarm of broken and bent promise
flashes of half-hearted dreams rotting in the wind
you will lock yourself in the bathroom
the woman in the mirror will greet you with a piercing gaze
she will say you are meant to fall
to understand the meaning of flight
there is no bargaining
look down at the blueprint map on your palm, make a choice
healing is a profound art
no one can free you but yourself
the damn train is going nowhere
and you might stay on that motherfucker for years if you’re not careful
you may even drift to sleep, a cozy still
they will bring you a pillow and a mint
the tracks rocking in rhythm like a mantra
the angels will not give up on you
even when you have traveled miles and miles
they will keep the faith of your return
the porch light stays on so you know you are welcome
inside where your life is waiting
Gina Loring
holds a BA from Spelman College and an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. She was featured on two seasons of HBO’s Def Poetry, and has performed her music and poetry in over ten countries as guest artist of the American Embassy. She is a professor in the Los Angeles community college school district and volunteers with Inside Out Writers, working with incarcerated teens. She lives in Los Angeles, and she believes in mermaids. Contact her at www.ginaloring.com