Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Daughter of Pasiphae
How did you feel, love, when I found
the lipstick drawn in mazes on the bathtub
like labyrinths dragged across the tile
until they melted into crimson wax
against the Minotaur’s smile? Did
you find comfort in the color, in the
temporary tattoo? Did it tickle your
fancy to see your cosmetics staining
the rudimentary body of the basin,
which lifted its pelvis upward on clubbed
feet, limping its way to the nearest wall?
Art is meant to be seen, and this femme
display brings back your father’s migraine.
What would he say to this, this modern
canvas left to suffocate with crushed carnauba
congealing in its mouth? Or did you, perhaps,
want him to find it, too, much to your sense
of humor—much less to your mother’s
sense of shame? Crete be damned.
I did not wipe away the offending
residue until you had a chance to
admire your masterpiece. Your hair
still wet from the kitchen sink. Your hands
soft like clay after so much scrubbing
against running water. You wore mascara
like curtains over your face, only
drawing them apart for the occasional
first act of tears that threatened
to compromise your personal
cabaret. You left beads on the carpet, so
I could step on them and make them pop
like little plastic planets disrupted in their
orbit around a Holbein sun, its red and gold
rays stretched outward like a scarab beetle
stuck on its back and exposing its belly to
an uncaring world. You sketched
portraits in eyeliner on your
arms and legs, the vessel dipped in black
like charcoal, charred horns and ebony
bulls leaving scattered hoof prints, like
lust, fading against your own calves
and knees. Yes, I am sure you felt great
pride when I found the lipstick drawn
in mazes on the bathtub. Your brother
the beast sleeps in its enameled maw.
I look away from its dreams and seize
the golden thread that leads me from the
labyrinth, where by the cold and narrow
entrance, you already wait for me.
Bless The Bones Of California
These days are getting short enough
to chew on. You can feel the sunsets
swelling right on your molars, melting
like butter in between your lips. On the side
of the road, a dirt scarred truck
sits on a lopsided slope. One headlight
is gouged out, like a wandering eye
ripped out of its metal socket.
Deep in the fields of Cotati,
you can drink the September heat
like soup still in its can, the salt boiled
away, leaving only the cream to scald
your mouth after the first sip. Only a few
neighborhoods away, the fires have taken
everything. Our relatives are left with
silhouettes of ash, but we still have
our house, our two acres, our banalities.
I can hear your boots assault the
skeletons of leaves on the patio outside. I am
old enough to understand the profanity
that you use to button up your
one-size-too-small shirt.
You are young enough to still carry me
on your shoulders, but once it gets dark
too quickly, your shadow weighs
us both down, and the North Bay swallows
us up in its maw until the sunrise
is cool enough to eat with a spoon.
Era
There were days when scratching
numbers into the leaves was all we had,
and counting the stars was comforting
because we didn’t have to worry about
how many there were, or how many of them
would submit to the cold inferno above
our ill-conceiving eyes.
The end of an era.
That was before we cared
about dynasties.
That was before
we carried around our names on staves
and pounded the need for recognition into
faceless marble. Before we gave ourselves
the sign of the cross because we feared
that the air we breathed would suck away
our dignity, or our newly minted,
false divinity. We thought
the robes we wore were proof
that we deserved the freedom of immortality,
and that the right color, when donned
properly, spared us from premature death
and artificially grafted omens on
metal as thin as paper, and as hot
as the volcanic ash we studied in school.
The professor insisted that we be capable
of holding our destinies in our own hands.
Far, far harder times had been wrought
before we etched our anxieties
into the tombstones we kept hidden
in our attics. We always locked the doors,
too. That way, we could pretend
that we didn’t have tombstones at all.
The most difficult part is that,
when I leave the bricks tumbling behind me
in the morning, red as the lack of hope,
I find no passion in scraping
a lucky seven into the raw vein
of a tree’s autumn locks. The stuff is
so brittle, and the colors so faded, because,
the more I think about it, the more this world,
riddled with the faulty desire to feel more alive,
turns further into an impending supernova.
Belinda Roddie
is a writer, educator, voice actor, and LGBTQ+ activist residing in the California East Bay. They have written a multitude of different works, including novels, poetry, plays, and screenplays. They are one of the co-founders and artistic directors of the online theatre company OK Zoomer and continually dabble in music and acting. Belinda currently lives with their wife, Arden, and their cats Binx and Gunner.