Red Heart Black Heart
2009 Writer’s Digest Valentine’s Day Collection
Poems, Letters, and Essays
Writer’s Digest Books
Cincinnati, OH
www.writersdigest.com
These are works of fiction and nonfiction. As applicable, the events and char-acters are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the authors and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher or Writer’s Digest Books.
Red Heart Black Heart
2009 Writer’s Digest Valentine’s Day Collection: Poems, Letters and Essays
All Rights Reserved
Copyright ©2009 Writer’s Digest Books
The selections printed herein reflect the authors’ original manuscripts as submitted to the Red Heart/Black Heart Writer’s Digest Valentine’s Day Writing Contest.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by Writer’s Digest Books, an imprint of F+W Media, Inc., 4700 East Galbraith Road, Cincinnati, Ohio 45236. (800) 289-0963.
Edited by Jane Friedman and Scott Francis
Cover designed by Kim Pieper
Designed by Kim Pieper and Grace Ring
A Premonition of Loss
By Joy S. Mahar
He’s snorting the poem,
leaving only traces of the lines upon the page.
He sucks the slicing white of me
into his fragile membranes,
and says he knows me better there.
He can sniff at me until I am a fine remainder of
a costly love, a small paper envelope
concealed in his pocket,
a precious bit of dust.
He’s riding the sailing boat
he loves, his secret pleasure,
I wave, hating.
We don’t know if our red bird is gone,
if it lives, or has become unmoving,
we remember the quiet flutter of wings beating,
the feel of stilled air stirring.
We’re waiting, the way a person waits after
the last ten dollars goes
with the stranger who has promised
to bring the thing they know you’ll never see.
Don’t ever let your money leave your sight.
The Pillow
By Khaled KE Mahmoud
My queen size bed with two pillows
the top one for my dreams
the lower one for my head
I have always slept on my right side
facing the sunset, the whales, a wish,
the fish boats, and the Japanese islands
dreaming west, absolute west
until I came across her in one of those dreams
I brought her to my bed
I gave her the top pillow and half of my sleep
I learned how to turn on my left side
facing the sunrise, the heat,
her eyes, the desert, and the great pyramid
dreaming east, absolute east
One night after a heated argument
I asked for my pillow
Since then I lie alone
sleepless on the equatorial line
facing my back
Male Order Delivery
by
Christy Johnson
I remember the first time I thought about ordering a date. A decade ago, the prevalent mindset was that there must be something seriously wrong with someone who would resort to electronic remedies to locate love. That pretty much described me. I had been single for two years and as far as I could tell, the supply of men was shut up tighter than the city of Jericho.
In desperation, I brushed up on my Bambi-eyed routine and hung out in the automotive section at Wal-Mart, asking cute guys for advice on which oil grade to select. The first guy I approached had fabulous shoes and most importantly—no ring. How was I supposed to know he was married and his wife was looking at light bulbs on the next row? Her cart came squealing around the corner so fast she accidentally knocked over the end-cap display of wood-grained toilet seats. So much for Plan A.
That's when I noticed Julie at work. This perky little anorexic thing had a lunch date nearly every day.
"Julie, where are you meeting all these guys?"
"I put an ad in The Gazette. You should try it."
What have I got to lose?
"I'm sure you will be very happy with the results," the rep assured me. "Most professionals today are too busy to meet other singles."
It was probably just a canned speech to help me justify my departure from normal dating venues, but male order delivery took on a whole new meaning to me that day.
I couldn't wait until The Gazette came out. Although its target market was a trendy crowd who frequented cigar lounges and sushi bars, I had installed spyware: C—the "official initial" for Christian in SWCF was sure to block any malicious tarot card enthusiasts.
Well, apparently, the "C" was extremely effective. I didn't get one call. Meanwhile, the men waiting in line for Julie had to take a number. That's when I heard a radio commercial advertising the Twister Love Line. They say it's darkest before the dawn.
Before
computer dating sites evolved, telephone dating services were a
marvel of technological advancement. By selecting one,
two, or
three on
my telephone keypad, I could indicate my preference for a variety of
features. This was a regular Build-a-Date workshop. I ordered a
Christian low-fat combo and super-sized the bank account.
The
next day I dialed the Twister Love Line and entered my pin number.
The cheery voice announced that I had "two new dates."
Hallelujah, it's raining men!
I listened to each date give his sales pitch. Unfortunately, the bios sounded more enticing than the intros. A month went by and still no catch of the day. I was about to delete the entire campaign when finally I got a bite. He was 6'2", with blond hair and blue eyes. My only reservation was that his favorite hobby was ice skating.
For someone with as much grace as a hippo on a high wire, anything involving balance on a razor thin blade could be nothing short of humiliating. At this point, however, all remaining logic had evaporated. When John called we arranged to meet at Iceland the following Saturday.
As I entered the rink that afternoon, the teen scene was complete with Spice Girls blaring over the jukebox.
Is this the only place I can find a date?
"And now it's time for couple's skate," blasted the voice over the intercom.
A man across the rink started his approach. As he drew closer, I felt as frozen as the ice on the rink. His exuberant smile flashed a missing front tooth and his unbuttoned coat exposed overalls.
John had described himself as being "semi"-fashion conscious and he certainly didn't say anything about being dentally challenged.
How did he get matched with me? I selected Caucasian, not Redneck!
All of a sudden, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Relieved
at the opportunity to avoid the "oncoming traffic", I
whirled around.
My gaze locked with the
chisel-cheeked, blue-eyed wonder towering before me. "Is your
name Christy?"
"Yes…," I stammered, "are you John?"
His eyes twinkled as he nodded his head and extended his hand to shake mine.
Bingo. My male order delivery had finally arrived. Maybe there is a FedEx in heaven after all. And hopefully, they packed the bubble wrap. I may need some padding for my behind.
Untitled
By Celia Watson
You're so handsome, you should be arrested, a siren
goes off every time I lay eyes on you. Women
turn their heads when you pass, you're
a dangerous substance, you should be contained,
I'm beginning to align my entire body like a filing
to your magnetic north.
You don't call me.
You don't bring me flowers.
You don't whisper my name
at night, you don't ache,
you don't wonder you don't
populate your mind with me, I am not
hiding behind your thoughts like drifting
globes, you don't rummage around
inside and find me lurking
behind the living room settee.
Don't look at me with those deep set eyes.
Don't run your fingers through my hair, don't
stroke my cheek, don't
press your lips on mine! Something here
is illegal, I call time out, I call
foul. Call the police, the referee, somebody
blow a whistle before you take something
that doesn't belong to you.
Essay on Love Lost
By Dave Aho
Wad Stevens was a boorish, slack-jawed individual whom I knew from frequenting local taverns after my first divorce. Wad's personality reminded me of the back wall of a racquetball court. The only decent thing in Wad's life was his girlfriend Flossy, a woman of remarkable beauty and style.
Wad coveted my 1961 Ford convertible. I coveted Flossy. I had been recently divorced and needed to be around a woman of beauty, style and intelligence. I figured two out of three wasn't bad as in Flossy's case.
"Wad," I queried over a lukewarm paper cup half full of Falstaff, "are you, uh, in love with Flossy?"
"Nah... she ain't bad but I wouldn't call it love."
"You, uh, aren't engaged or going steady or anything like that?"
"No. We both date other people."
"I'll sell you my car for $600 if you'll let me date your girlfriend, unless she's got someone else?..."
"No, no, she ain't got nobody else. I dunno, 'though. I like Flossy a lot..."
"I'll throw in a full tank of gas and a case of Goebel."
"... Done!"
I had my first date with Flossy the next weekend. We had a good dinner, saw a movie, and took a drive afterward. I didn't need the full hour of conversation I suffered through to realize I had greatly underestimated the task at hand. This poor miss was certainly likeable but, oh, her lack of intellect was downright scary! I made another date and began planning on how to teach this girl how to think.
"Logic," I pontificated, as we shared a bottle of exquisite wine, "is the science of thinking. Let's talk about some of the fallacies of logic."
This is called the fallacy of 'False Analogy:' Let's take your car instead of mine. Every time we take mine, it gets cold and rainy out. If we take your car it won't rain."
"That's not true," she chirped. "Every time I take my car to the beach, it would cloud up and..."
"Flossy," I grimaced but spoke softly, "it's a fallacy. My car doesn't cause the weather to change. Your car doesn't cause the weather to change. You are guilty of a fallacy if you make such an assumption."
"I still think my car..."
"Another fallacy of logic is called "Generalization." Listen to this: I can't run three miles. You can't run three miles. Wad can't run three miles. We are all from Michigan, therefore, no one from Michigan can run three miles."
"No foolin'? Not one person in Michigan?"
"Flossy, it's an example of a Generalization. There are not enough facts to support such a conclusion. If you do, you are guilty of generalizing."
"...I'm sorry."
I sighed heavily. This began to look hopeless. Still, I wanted to get this lovely, graceful creature next to me.
"Let's try one more, Flossy. This one is called 'Poisoning The Well.' Two men are running for office. The first man in a debate tells the audience that his opponent is a notorious liar. You can't believe anything the man tells you. Now think, Flossy. What is wrong with this logic?"
A glimmer of understanding lit her eyes as a conclusion oozed into her consciousness. "It ain't fair. The second guy doesn't have a chance because no one will believe him."
"Bingo!" I yelped. "The first speaker has Poisoned The Well."
Patiently I fanned her glowing embers of knowledge into flames of understanding over several painstaking sessions. It was time to move our relationship from cerebral to physical.
"Flossy, I'd say we make a pretty good couple..."
"A Generalization," she said. "There isn't enough information to support that conclusion. How can you know what kind of couple we'd make after only a few dates?"
Delightful little minx. Ha ha. "Flossy, I feel that you should be my steady girl. One doesn't have to finish his steak to know that it is delicious, you know."
"False analogy. I'm not a piece of meat. I'm a woman. Besides, I already agreed to go steady with Wad Stevens.
Wad? That man is an imbecile, a moron, and a double-crosser."
"Poisoning The Well," she admonished.
I decided to appeal to her newfound logic. "Flossy, let's explore this rationally. I'm younger, slimmer, brighter and have a much better future. Wad is a hopeless barfly, he smells badly and he can't even spell future. What could you possibly see in the man?"
She got a dreamy look in her eyes. "He's got a cool convertible."
Alienation of Confection
By Wendy Dager
Hidden away in a cupboard above
That shiny reminder of my deepest love
Is the heart-shaped box encased in silk
Holding the product of cacao, sugar and milk.
It’s those precious, hand-made candies I crave
Forever making me their chocolate slave.
’Twas one day in which I was suffering stress
And in need of their velvet caress.
Their centers were key to my inner gleam
Raspberry, caramel, ganache, buttercream.
Imagine my surprise—nay, my chagrin,
When I opened the box and found mayhem within.
Someone had taken each precious piece
And bitten the bottoms in a frenzied feast.
No savoring of flavors, no sweetness tasted,
This was truly a love that was wasted.
Whoever had done it was more fiend than friend
For he’d skipped the middle and gone straight to the end.
Message From Some Bartender
By Zan Rathore
Was it love at first sight? Don't you know that all that is just complete, utter rubbish? As a bartender, I've heard that about a million times. It's like saying you saw a Nestea commercial and then you craved some Nestea. Guess what? You don't really fall backwards into a swimming pool when you drink Nestea. YOU CRACK YOUR HEAD OPEN ON THE COLD, HARD CEMENT! It's the same thing with that girl you like; you just want her because she's a knockout and you think you'll fall into her swimming pool, but you won't. You'll crack your head on her cold, hard cement.
It all starts when you start to think about one girl just a little more often than any other girl. Then you wonder why you're thinking about that girl and so you blank your mind and get back to whatever it is you were doing. But then here she comes again, tripping right back into your head. Before you know it, she's Rapunzel up there locked inside the topmost part of the castle that is your brain, banging on the walls, trying to get out. But she can't. You desperately want to run up there and use the key to set her free, but you can't either because you've lost the key. This girl will drive you to insanity all because you lost a stupid key. Then, finally, being the modern day Prince Charming that you are, you get down on one knee and defiantly proclaim "RAPUNZEL ... I LOVE YOU!!!" You sit outside the castle walls, waiting for a response, but Rapunzel retreats into her room, leaving you in a silence so loud it is deafening. You sit there, waiting for Rapunzel to show her face once more, waiting for her to come to the window, waiting for her to catch you. At last, once you have been lying on the ground for what seems like eternities, Rapunzel makes her way down after realizing the locks to the castle doors have opened. She exits through the castle gates, walking towards you, and your heart pounds like a jackhammer as she inches closer, but she merely steps over you and walks off into the horizon. You lie there, waiting for her to turn back; she doesn't. She has left just as quickly as she arrived. You lie there, and you look left, and you look right but you see nothing but emptiness. So you sit up. And you look left and you look right, but you're staring into that emptiness once again. You decide to stand up and see if you can get a better view. Surely Rapunzel wouldn't leave you like this … would she? So you look left, and you look right, but all you see is more emptiness. After standing there for what seems like forever, you finally decide to walk away and the castle is drowned in the ocean that is your memory.
There is a song that goes "Every broken heart will eventually mend," which is true. But, my friend, all broken bones mend as well, and you don't see people going around purposely breaking their bones. When bones are broken they heal and become weaker; it's the same thing with your heart. When you know it will hurt, why go asking someone to break your heart when you can stay away from all that trouble by not falling in love in the first place? Take it from me; someone who fell down, someone who sat up, someone who stood up, and someone who eventually walked away. Don't fall down. It hurts.
Untitled
Jackie Hosking
I love your front
I love your back
I even love your willy
I love that I can write this crap
And you won't think I'm silly
I love you now
I loved you then
I'll love you down the track
But most of all
I love your front
Your willy
And your back
Untitled
By Sheri Dudra
Dearest Uri,
Your coffee is on the counter growing cold as well as your mother on the sofa. Life could have been wonderful together.
all my love,
Natasha
Your Beauty Is Not Jade
By David O’Neal
Your beauty is not jade, dear: beauty fades,
But unhasting, as stars wink on at night.
Your loveliness has deep and different shades,
Your beauty’s my eyes’ pleasure and delight.
Love is not blind, but nature’s pace is kind:
As slowly was formed the planet Venus,
Or as sea slowly smoothes the stones we find
So that no sudden change comes between us.
And when I see your beauty day by day,
It seems to me that time’s left you behind
To dazzle me and keep me in your sway.
Your loveliness has been so well designed.
And unlike jade, or other gems we find,
Your beauty ripens slowly in my mind.
Terra Firma Promise Launch
By Kevin Spenst
in this simpleton second
my skull feels full of soil
but you are the goodly flower
tickle-growing out of my ear
with only two blue petals
you make a full corolla
sometimes raindappled down
and then touching my neck
goose-bumped cold in the rain
when decades are done
i'll remember this joke flower image
within our shared center
as we'll both, as promised, have eroded
in habits, choices and feelings
into a planet of each other
built out from children song soils,
four or five strata of relations and too
many gold deposit tears and cavernous laughs to count
altogether claybound in love's gravity
in centuries i see
beyond the pale of our own skin
love orbiting outwards still
beyond you and i and two or three of them
into blue and blown-eyed twinkles
befriending even the obscure flowers
of unpronouncible colors
in furtherance of our forever love
Arugula Dreams
By
Terri L. French
The
black olive halves border her plate
like
the dashes on a numberless wall clock;
She
dare not eat one of them lest she
eat
away the most precious moments of her life;
Who
knows what could occur between olive
12
o'clock and olive 1 o'clock;
Perhaps
she would be proposed to by the man
sitting
across from her who sips
sauvignon
blanc and glances at his watch,
Counting
the time between tick and tock--
and
so the olives remain on her plate's rim
while
she lusts after them
continuing
to munch on insipid arugula.
Moment
By Kathy Bjornestad
He said it didn't matter, while I daggered
through the roast beef on my plate--
tossed a green leaf here, a croûton there
and sprinkled Parmesan like hate.
He said it was a moment, nothing meant—
and nothing ever to repeat.
He sipped his Cabernet, and (nonchalant)
continued, silently, to eat.
The waiter came and went—
a deft removal of our empty plates and bowls:
my soup, my salad fork, my wine-stained glass,
my crumpled heart, my empty soul.
Dessert arrived: "Forgive me?" He spoke past
a sweet-hot mouthful of flambé.
"Forgive you?" I repeated, not a statement,
but he ate it up that way.
He swallowed, smirked, complacent,
satisfaction stretched across his sated face.
"Excuse me, just a moment." Saying this I slipped out
of that crowded place.
I wonder if he still waits at our table,
sips his sweet aperitif of sin,
tongues the bitter aftertaste of justice—
the check, unpaid, the Moment stretching thin.
Love Letter
By Victoria Montanez-Quinto
Dear Miguel:
I strongly believe that being single is a wonderful thing, it is the good life - you may be giving me one of those blazing looks of disapproval, you are raising your eyebrows. I can see. But hold on, I also affirm that our partnership, or for that matter any partnership
can be better.
Here are some of our lessons:
I have invited you to leave our one-bedroom apartment approximately twenty times during three or four years, I have invited you to leave the country and to leave my life and just leave me alone. I have bitched about your mother, about your high school years, about your nasty habits. I have yelled and cried. I could blame our Latin roots, our passion for everything we do but I will be fair and conclude that we unnecessarily went overboard. We followed our emotions at the wrong times. We are both learning that in a crisis, at least one should remain somewhat calm.
We both accept the importance of our alliance, but yet the criticality of remaining oneself. I certainly remember you trying to go with me to the gym at early hours when you are not an early bird. I remember you trying to eat tofu and hating it. I vividly recall the last barbecue with your friends where I almost died of boredom. I know you would like me to wear heels, but I hate them. There is no choice other than to be yourself, anything else would be harmful for our own alliance.
The third idea is about how we fill each other's gaps. You have this enormous curiosity for life, to try new things, to eat new things, to hear new music, to experience more, to socialize more. I, on the other hand, value my privacy, my routine, and can certainly play the same song over and over. You are my way to new experiences, to those moments that take my breath away. I am your way to some structure, to the safe zone. Our own shortcomings seem to disappear when we rely on each other strengths.
Allow me to finish now my idea about being single. I clearly recall living on my own, making sure every decision would match my taste - with everything on my terms I was sure that I would take on the world. This new version of me - because of us - would not be satisfied with conquering the world. There is more to life : the journey must be
enjoyable. For this new approach to life I am forever grateful and deeply in love with you.
Victoria
Alley Cat Love
By Deborah
Alley cat chicken
Alley cat fries,
Alley cat sundae
Alley cat pies,
Alley cat evening
Alley cat moons,
Alley cat nightcap
Alley cat tunes,
Alley cat morning
Tom cat surprise!
Poem for Susan on Valentine’s Day
By Alan R. Proctor
You are scrimshaw in my bones:
new grooves and old, ecstatic scroll;
tattoo beneath my flesh.
None of the Valentine's Day cards understand
the sharp tools needed for scrimshaw, the willing
bone, the craftswoman's intensity and abandon.
Here is my tibia, my knee-cap and the last
few inches of skull. I know the sweetest
images will be there where your kiss me.
Love Stinks
By Linda Hofke
It's like cutting onions
every time I think of you,
eyes red, stinging.
Your scent clings to me,
vapors invading my
nasal passages,
permeating my lungs,
slowly,
deliberately,
like carbon dioxide.
Suffocating,
I gasp for air,
thrust hand to chest,
covering my heart,
broken, weak.
Light-headed,
sharp knife slips
from my hand,
grazes my skin.
The cut bleeds,
just enough,
once again,
preparing me for
the next course,
praying something
better will be served
when this stench
dissipates.
My Heart Unto Yours Is Knit
By Toni Giarnese
If you ask me
how my knitting classes are going
I'd say that I like
the orderly progression of the stitches,
each row of loops on the needle,
poised like a chorus line facing left.
I love to slide my fingers over the alpaca,
to feel the rhythm that builds with needles and yarn.
I am mesmerized by the subtle dance of knit and purl,
the growing weight of the piece as it shifts on my lap.
I clutch the bamboo needles
like a Newfoundland trucker who knits while he drives.
My hands explore new territory and acquire their own memory.
I work the alpaca fibers of Incan royalty
and the stitches leapfrog into stockinettes and ribs.
Slip, slip, knit, slip, slip, knit,
the thin wood pursuing strands of pistachio, poppy, and purple.
I start the hank with a long-tail cast on,
then salvage the place where seams disappear.
I want to knit one, purl one, laugh one.
I want to make gloves that begin in my hands
when I lift the strand between the needles
and end on yours beside the woodpile.
STR - A Short Textual Relationship
By Janice Cutbush
HTC!-Hi there Cutie!
WSUB?-What’s up Babe?
RUS?-Are you single?
WW2K?-Who wants to know?
YT-Yours Truly.
MMT-Meet me tonite.
IAD-It’s a deal.
LUMI-Luv you, mean it.
LNWG!-Last nite was great!
4M2!-For me too!
IAH4U!-I am hot for you!
MMAW?-Meet me after work?
YSW?-Ya sure where?
MP4HAK-My pad for hugs and kisses.
IBTWBO-I’ll be there with bells on.
LUFE-Luv you forever.
HNWT?-How nice was that?
IHB-I’ve had better.
UFW!-You fickle wench!
JMWU-Just messin with you.
GTH-Go to hell.
CWBF-Can we be friends?
NIYWD-Not in your wildest dreams.
NBH4U-Nothing But Hate for You.
SUIH!-See you in hell!
I Thought of You
By Mel Goldberg
I heard that old song by Billy Preston,
“Laying safe within your arms, I’m born again,”
and I thought of you.
I was thrown back 20 years,
and you might be interested to know
this is not the first time.
I went to the perfume counter
to buy a Valentine gift for my wife,
but when I inhaled the light crisp fragrance of
mandarin and bergamot
I was with you again,
making love on the old quilt
and eating tuna fish salad with too much mayo.
Remember our illusion of facing the future together?
Before reality crushed us
and we ran forward
in different directions.
The Crush
By Roy A. Barnes
As much as I loved you
Your Valentine to me was the smallest one
from the box of store-boughts
I Lied
By Brittany Melson
Okay, I admit it.
I must confess the truth, I guess.
When I said you were my honey,
Despite your lack of money,
I lied.
When I said I wanted your baby,
And you asked me to marry you,
And I said "Maybe,"
I lied.
When I said I found you darling,
Despite all our petty bickering and quarreling,
I lied.
But now I can say,
With all sincerity,
With the utmost clarity,
When I said that I loved you,
I really wanted to shove you,
Off of a cliff.
Do you get my drift?
I lied.
Complicated
By Maude Stephany
with playful fingers
love unfolds my origami heart
I burst with elation
Tooth Telling
By
John Burroughs
I
wanted badly
To
bite the slight
Bulge
of belly beneath
Your
navel
But
I feared
You
might
Bite
back
Upon a Blighted Troth
By James R. Hobson
Had I known but sooner, love,
That thou wouldst come my way,
I should have quaffed a hemlock cup
And died that very day.
Failing this, I needs have found
A Merlin hoar and seer,
To school me in thy foolish ways
For months upon a year.
Neither wizards had I then,
Nor poison draughts enow;
Unmailed, alas, I would affray
And naked am I now.
I thought me Adam in thy arms,
For thou wert very Eve;
Thine wast the body, mine the rib
That next thy heart must cleave.
But thou hast believed a serpent's hiss,
A toad has bid thee run,
To hide from me in cynic's leaves
Though paradise was won.
Eating Roasted Garlic
By F.J. Bergmann
eating roasted garlic
since there’s no one in this place
worth going home with
Eleven Truths and a Lie: A Love Letter
By Beth Couture
1.
If I had known you were coming home so early, I would have locked the door.
2.
I did it because you fucked your secretary last week. Don't tell me you didn't—I could smell her in your hair.
3.
I would never have done it if you had just gone to the doctor like you said you would. I wanted to know you were working on it too, not just me. All the books, the tapes (I even rented goddamn porn for you, and you couldn't even try), the blame. I blamed myself, you know. Do you know this? Do you know that I vowed to stay at the gym an extra hour a week for every time you couldn't get it up? Do you know that I tried hair dye, makeup, looked into plastic surgery and tanning beds, just to make you want me again? I've become so tired of trying. Do you know?
4.
It meant nothing to me, and I feel guilty and sick. I'm so, so sorry. It will never happen again.
5.
He was nowhere near as good as you, honey. He was sloppy, like a sixteen-year-old virgin desperate to score at his junior prom. I thought his tongue was going to slide down my throat, choke me, that he was going to come in my belly button by mistake. It lasted six minutes, counting foreplay. I swear.
6.
I'm leaving you for him. My bags are already packed and in the car. Goodbye.
7.
You've never made me come. No, not once.
8.
Do you remember that night I told you I worked late? That was the first night I fucked him. We met at the office, and we still work together, so it was kind of like working late, don't you think? I called you his bed while he was going down on me. You said I sounded out of breath, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing.
9.
If you leave me, I'll kill myself.
10.
He makes me feel more beautiful than you have in years. He holds me, touches my hair, my face, my breasts, all the places you don't touch me anymore, all the places you ignore when you're thrusting and grunting every night. It's like you've forgotten that I have any other body parts, that I'm more than just a lukewarm hole. He makes me remember I'm alive.
11.
If you tell me to never see him again, I won't.
12.
When I first met you, I thought you were the stars, and when you touched me, I couldn't breathe for weeks. And you know what's funny? I still feel that way. I still do.
Trash
By Mitch Omar
I hollowed out my bureau
and black-sacked it to the bus station,
rags and dogs sniffing my heels on the way
asking for the time.
Station wasn't much better
just minded my own and licked concrete walls
trying to taste drab,
small bits of glitter stuck to my tongue.
Iris had told me I should get out more
to interact with people,
said it'd be good for me,
as if that meant what the words did.
The plastic ripped somewhere
between standing in line and the bus seat,
enough to leak a picture frame
with our brown photo.
Around eleven, the woman next to me
said I had a nice face
that I looked like her son,
then later on, that she would've been my wife.
I told her it wasn't easy being married to me,
that my wife fell out of the bag,
that a garbage sack can only carry so much
before it develops a hole or two.
A Geologist’s Love
By Benjamin Vogt
There’s no heat in her hands. No solace in her embrace.
She presses herself into another so hard, she hopes
the pressure fuses a center brighter than the sun.
She says she wants to be mined like coal.
The cold metal scraping at her insides, methodical, each
valley seismographed and core sampled, researched
and then unearthed. She wants to be on display.
She wants her inside breath to know the April rain.
Her heart to pump the clouds and rivers like her blood,
to cleanse the storms and nightfall and mud
until she can see through them toward the beginning.
But the beginning, she’s seen in books, was dust
and ash, sparkle radiation, plasma pools and sharp rock.
Fragments of ice. Fog and daggers of creation.
She says her bones are stalagmites sharpened
beneath a dense ocean that drips onto her.
Irony, she says, is the morphous water sharpening the minerals,
evaporating the cold smooth and leaving the element.
She says she can offer nothing more than distilled parts
constantly melting beneath the mantle of her skin.
What a Man Needs
By Eva Schlesinger
A man should have at least one stuffed animal
that he refers to as his child
He should have fish that mate so that when they have babies
he can rejoice in being a granddaddy
If he drives a car, he should name it
so that when he forgets where
he parked it, he can call for it by name
He should grow morning glories
that reach for the sky
glowing in golden purple and starlight blue
Paris Can Never Be Our Poem
By Suzanne Burns
Paris can never be our poem. It belongs
to Gertrude Stein and Alice B., Henry and Anaïs,
the filaments of a million lights totemic
in the tourists’ eyes. It’s an ailment to mythologize
this European host, its allure a history
of beheadings mixed with Champagne
toasts floating in a boat down the River Seine.
But what a treat to stroll the pedigree of streets
stuffed on éclairs. Mona Lisa lives there, but I’d rather
sneak a hand beneath your shirt and stroke the soul
of your belly, the birth of another great craving.
Paris can never be our poem.
Of course the catacombs are calling,
and the Louvre, but it means more
to spend time in an attic loft, a cheap motel.
Hemingway would agree, he and Hadley
making their own scene, blue limericks mixed
among oyster shells, the fatal design of a woman
loving a writer who mostly loved himself.
Paris can never be our poem
because it belongs to everyone else.
I trade in my plane ticket to stake claim in the nook
where your shoulder gives way to your heart. This is big.
You will insist on missing the last lift to the Eiffel Tower’s top
and choose, instead, to navigate my skin. It talks. Just listen.
“But we’ve never seen Paris,” you’ll whisper, as I find
solace anchoring myself to your ribs, my cheek
pressed against your chest, kindled with the heat of tears.
We will both know our poem is waiting here.
Love, and Gumballs
by Kara M. Rogers
I remember when I was ten. I lived, with my parents, on a military base outside of Anchorage. If you've been to Alaska you know the winters – long and black and 20 below on a warm day. Instead of sparrows flicking through your trees, there are moose trying to eat them. That was when I felt love at first sight – during a lightless winter. I knew the concept – the feeling of sweeping chiffon dresses, gumball flavored breathes, and magic chocolate sprinkles. Gumball breathes were my favorite – mine were cinnamon.
There had been a boy. I can't remember his name. Every time I saw him it was love at first sight. When you're ten you forget feelings as they pass, so each feeling is the first time. I loved being ten. My friends and I lived on the same street, each house looked like the next (military housing is fantastic if you want to be inconspicuous). Each morning my friends and I walked to school together. We jumped out our front doors as we saw our gangly group coming closer. We talked, laughed, and trotted our way down the street. Sometimes we traded snacks from our lunches, or pieces of candy stolen from our siblings. On good days there were gumballs.
It was during these winter walks to school that it would happen. The boys always ran up ahead and disappeared. We knew what they were doing, they were waiting and planning their attack. They sprinted around the end of our street trying to find a couple of lonely trees to hide behind and snicker (there were not many trees, see note on moose above). It wasn't long before one of the girls felt a sting on her leg or heard a whizzing past her ear. My friend, Sarah, got popped so hard in the face that she nearly fell over. They were ice balls – not snowballs – ice balls. If you have ever made an ice ball, you know that it requires some forethought. The typical snowball is made first, then held tight for some slight melting, then reshaped into a smaller ball. The boys had forethought every day for five months.
The boy (my prince charming in Velcro sneakers) led the pack of warriors. That made him even more desirable. As I dodged the whizzing balls, I swear I was smiling and wishing only the ones that he threw would hit me. I think he liked me too, because he would always aim for me.
I loved the boy who gave me the I-don't-care-how-many-red-welts-I-have-on-my-body feeling. It was love at first sight, everyday. It's not the feeling that impels romance novels, it's a sudden moment of joy - like eyeing your first spring flower, or throwing your cinnamon gumball at the one you love. It's walking past your best friends' house and seeing her run down the sidewalk towards you. It's seeing a rainbow and deciding to chase it.
There will be ice balls thrown at you from time to time. Some will go screaming past your head and others will leave welts. Sometimes you'll never catch the rainbow, even if you swear by your dead hamster that you could see exactly where it ended. But there will always be another day, more candy, and friends to walk to school with - sometimes they'll have gumballs.
Rejection Letter
By Jessica Aycock
Ms. Anita Break, Executive Director
Core Center of Feeling
33 Bitter Dell Court
Reality, CO 11111
February 3, 2009
Mr. John Dont
13 Penitence Place
Apartment F
Incompetent, CO 00000
Dear Sir:
Regarding your gift of February 14, 2007, we at the Core Center of Feeling regret to inform you that your previous submission to the annual Color of Love contest has been ritualistically burned during a recent change of Center headquarters. We remind you that, while the applicant pool was exceedingly small (as you were actually the only participant), we haven't the time or staff to maintain rejections.
As you know, the guidelines stated that the object must be related to romance and incorporate the traditional color red (for your personal reference, previous winners have included gifts of roses, wine, jewelry, and choice pieces of clothing). Although your submission indeed took into consideration the required theme (we accepted your hue of choice, "scarlet," as a variation), your offering was rejected for the following reasons, both leading up to your entry, and for the submission itself:
It was found to be in poor taste to take on a girlfriend when you had yet to be divorced.
It was likewise found to be in poor taste to belatedly inform the girlfriend of your personal situation the evening before entering a contest of this caliber.
While perhaps thought of as an attempt at nervous/playful humor, inscribing your gift with the phrase, "I hope you enjoy Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, and be grateful we don't live in Puritan times!" was found to be a misguided message of moral incontinence.
Please do be more careful in future endeavors of this nature, and give our respect to your current wife.
Regards,
Ms. Break
Executive Director
Core Center of Feeling
Essay on Love Lost
By Jennifer
Koiter
Make yourself a nice
tisane. You can't do nothing. You have a box of cookies
you had planned to have with tea, with him. But you have lost
him, and it is nearly midnight, too late for tea. Too late for
tea with him. You won't be able to bring yourself to throw the
cookies out. So make yourself a nice tisane. You can't do
nothing.
You
sent a message you should not have sent; it allows you to hope for a
reply. You are trying to extinguish hope – best not to give
it air holes. Don't scold yourself too soundly, though. You
have lost, and loss demands allowances.
It
also demands symbolic gestures. Dip the cookie into your mug,
melt the chocolate a little. The tisane has licorice in it, one
of your quiet pleasures: the bitter licorice tang when you swallow,
the sweetness that crawls up your tongue from the back of your
throat. The cookies are French, made in the hometown of your
last lover. The last time you ate them was, in fact, with him,
dunked in the tisane he made you each night before bed. It is
okay to mingle the two men, the two losses. It is one loss,
really, the same loss over and over again. The trick is –
your assignment is – to find a new way to miss someone, a better
way to feel all alone.
So
write something down (that's how you think through things, isn't
it?). Write whatever you feel like saying, even if it is foolish,
even if it can only be written badly. Bad writing is another
allowance you must make for yourself, the most magnanimous allowance
a writer can make. Strain your metaphors, use clichés.
Write like the writers you make fun of when you're not hurting,
who write like everything that happens to them is important, even,
for example, losing what they never had.
Because
it is important, like it or not. Life is, in yet another
beautiful, terrible way, like writing: we do not choose our subjects;
they choose us. We decide only what to do with them. The
proper question is how, not why or how long or
whether you ought, which are moot. You miss him, and you
will miss him till the missing is done.
You
will miss him till the missing is done, so you might as well get
started. You can't do nothing. Eat the cookies, even
though you're not hungry, even though they're stale. Swallow
the bitter drink. Wait for the sweetness.
Heroine on Top
By Shannon Walsh
A photographer notices the bright
blue of your eye and wants to shoot
you close-up, superimpose the dot
of my face inside your pupil,
but we know he's just a cook with a camera
and a jerk besides, and we don't want
to be subjected by him. We bind ourselves
in erotica we write as a game
to escape boredom, but we argue
over who will be the top,
cannot decide simply to take turns.
What we only imagine won't hurt anyone
but each other when we start to bleed
and haven't had sex in a while. We could
marry anyway because it's legal
in this state and it's the thing to do.
Not if but when we fail (through distance,
smothering, dream affairs) I will blame
you into a thousand lines of poetry
while you will kill me in every story
you plot. And we will both be villains.
Galway
By Courtney Downing
The four hours there, the same small pub with light
streaming through someone's window,
the fields of sheep and lambs,
the baby cow that startled and kicked
as the coach passed (empty seat beside me),
fingering the last few matches
and same cigarette
because I wanted to smoke it by the sea.
I stood on the retaining wall for a long time
watching the other side of the Atlantic ebb.
Swans drifted through the ends of waves.
Gulls cried for fish and livers.
I smelled the tide.
You were somewhere behind me.
You were somewhere ahead.
Everywhere the legacy of boats,
the trinity of drizzle.
I counted the Irish I know
(taoiseach, craic, fir, slainte),
and smoked a broken cigarette,
spitting out tobacco curls.
It was raining.
Of course it was raining.
Love Lost Between Two Signatures
By Scott Ross
When one thinks of lost love certain images come to mind: a summer romance that ends in a September betrayal; a tragedy while on a whitewater rafting honeymoon; or maybe a young man who meets the girl of his dreams while traveling through Italy, then, one night goes out to buy some Chianti, gets lost in the labyrinthine Venetian streets, two days pass before he stumbles upon his hostel, only to find that she has left. Reality, however, tends to serve up lost love on a much more mundane platter. More often than not love is lost to apathy; time robes us of our passion. We wake up one day and find, lying next to us, a good friend, who incidentally, is the last person on earth with whom we wish to make love. Then we divorce. Not only have we lost love, we have a legal document to prove it.
A man is an atheist but he recites his wedding vows as though he were standing before God. Truer words have never been spoken, he thinks. He looks at his young bride and is overwhelmed by the grandiosity of his love for her. His love is bigger than the room, yet it is in the room; it is more enigmatic than God but he believes in it. For a few seconds his thoughts lead him to believe in more than love—in angels and heaven and men living inside whales. The words exit his lips: in sickness and in health, forever and… Ten years later he thinks: forever is a long time but forever and ever is just stupid. But he meant those words when he spoke them. Not an indecisive man, he stood before God and declared his eternal devotion to this young lady. So why is nobody calling him a hypocrite as he signs his divorce papers?
He’s not a hypocrite. It’s the wording that tripped him up, the part about to have and to hold. To hold, no problem, he likes to hold, he is good at holding. But To have, let’s face it, to have means to fuck, and therein lay the difficulty. It is a fine line between monogamy and celibacy. Ten years into marriage she is no longer a woman, she is just his wife, a body without mystery or allure. There are men that do find her attractive; but he can’t. Thus begins the slow and painful journey towards divorce—or death, depending on one’s level of motivation.
If a summer romance ends in scandal one still has the aid of resentment to quell their pain; if they lose love between a rock and an inflatable raft, time will heal their wounds; if love is literally lost in Venice its memory eventually morphs into nostalgia; but love lost to lethargy is more distressing. This happens, slowly, and unseen, like a man loses his hair. In the interim a bound is formed, like that between siblings, a couple comes to know each other perfectly. They have small adventures and endure tiny calamities. Although their bed has become a den of inactivity, he is at peace when she is there by his side, the rhythm of her breathing lulls him into sleep. But the now-sisterly love that he has for her cannot be healthy within the confines of a marriage; she agrees. Better to be friends then husband and wife. After the divorce, they inevitably find other partners, and appropriately, have less and less contact with each other. Soon months pass without word. She is his ex-wife—they have a sexual history—it is not normal to stay in contact. His once best friend, his soul mate, his surrogate sister is lost.
Unlike a wife lost to death, a wife lost to divorce is out there somewhere. She might be alone and sad; she might be hurt and unable to call for help; or she might be enjoying the best sex of her life. It’s the tedium of divorce that belies its underlying sadness, transcending the tragedy of the classical lost love found in romance novels and Hollywood films. Between two signature—the wedding license and the divorce papers—love is entwined, defeated, and lost. The broken people that are left to flounder into new lives will tell you: Shakespeare has nothing on the dissolution of a marriage.
Thoughts While Driving
By Margaret Fieland
Just for you
no more
sharp
toenails,
I will chew
slowly,
send you flowers,
drive carefully
even when
distracted by
thoughts
of
you.
Love Letter
By Kristen Anselmo
Dear Gerald,
You're not as handsome as the man I married. Yes, I know you are the same man, but today you are not as handsome as yesterday. And yesterday you were not as handsome as the day before. Add up all the yesterdays of the last thirty years and you will see what I saw this morning.
And while we are on the topic, may I remark that you are not as thin, except on top of your head. Speaking of your hair, it has migrated everywhere but where it ought to be.
Your once taut tummy has been replaced with a bowl of raspberry jello; the surface puckled from years of good eating. And what isn't fatter, since the day we married, is now horribly wrinkled.
Gone are the days when you felt it necessary to open the door for me when we were out. Vague memories exist of you offering to pick up your own clothes or heat up soup for me when I was sick. I am not even truly sure of the memories as they are of such a fuzzy and indeterminate nature as to be unreliable.
But, this morning when I awoke to find a tender little lily on my bedside table, a new memory was formed; clear and wonderful in its innocence.
I love you Gerald and I want to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day.
Love, your longtime sweetheart,
Doris
Love Poem from the Italian Garden
by Kake Huck
For Will
In a backpath of Giardino di Boboli
a stairway of grotesques spills rain
in oval pools. Unkept, their faces
cracked and lichen-crowned, they grin as if
Medici courtiers still shrewdly slid
through nearby leafy halls.
Like our weathered love this drain
is picturesque not pretty in the sun;
useful if not overmatched by storm.
Rundown by run-off, stone eyes now see
the hip-high grass and untrimmed trees;
old tyrannies of order overthrown.
Were you head gardener of this palace park,
how managed all this wildness would appear,
how polished these inhuman stones.
The Monastery
By Tricia Crawford Coscia
Tonight you stood staring into the photograph
of the monastery, the one you took when you
were away, and I wasn’t with you. Marble,
iridescent floor and frescoed ceiling,
You said, again, how great the floor was.
You gazed at the photo, while I told you
another big branch fell from the sycamore
and the baby might be coming down
with something. You smiled at that perfect image
of the stone floor while your son spilled his cereal
and asked for water, and your daughter hugged you
from behind. You carried her to bed looking,
over her shoulder, still staring into the monastery.
And now you snore in a red wine sleep,
while I polish the fragile cage of a little chest
with Vicks Vapo Rub, finding no cough medicine
in the middle of the night, and his stomach I stroke
with peppermint and lavender, bubbles churning
and popping beneath my fingers, in his silky
water balloon tummy. Sorry he ate that chocolate.
The midnight quiet of the living room is broken
by a sweep of headlights down the Avenue– an engine
louder, then fading away, like regular breaths, and the cat
is scratching somewhere upstairs. My fingers glaze
the keyboard with Vicks. My gut makes noise in sympathy,
one ear listens for his cries again. But behind my eyes
I am in the monastery with you, posing, warm body
on polished stone, looking up into putti and ribbons
and opulent sky, searing camera flashes on my
bare skin. Are you dreaming of the monastery, too?
Because
By Jordan Campbell
You love her.
squishy nose.
tight jeans.
good on top.
cute.
worthy.
does that open mouth carp thing.
platinum & diamonds.
one of the unobtainables, that you obtained.
held her to sleep at night.
never got kicked out.
makes you laugh.
first choice, not runner up.
I am not her.
For her, you break my heart.
Coral Castle
By Devon
Brenner
Everything we do should be
for some good purpose.
—Edward Leedskalnin, builder of the
Coral Castle
Because he loved her, and she left him,
he
quarried her a home at the edge of the Everglades.
Using fossils
and obsession, he toiled in secret,
levering the slabs of coral
into tower and turret,
a nine-ton gate so perfectly aligned
their
children could have swung it open
or closed,
had she come,
had there been children.
He crafted from the stone all that
she would need,
a bed and chairs, cold and sharp,
a barbecue, a
well, an obelisk.
So she would always have blossoms,
he carved
a perfect circle in the Heart-of-Love table,
but the red Ixora he
bush planted there drew only wasps.
For twenty years he built this
tomb
and when it was done only tourists came
dropping ten
cents’ admission
to stand within walls made of skeletons.
All of us build our houses of the dead
the
husks of trees, the tar on our shingles
was once a prehistoric
forest. The blocks he lifted
were heavier than those of the
pyramids,
stand taller than Stonehenge.
Even as a mason he
could not have done this.
But isn’t that what love does?—rock
our foundations, then forsake us,
alone with our pulleys in
the night.
Alphabet of Hate
By Harrison Miller
You ruined me, you felled me,
you killed hope, little h, capital h,
in me. The H of hate took its place.
I’ve no longer a use for the letter H
except to hate. I hate you so much,
it seeps out of me like sludge,
spills out of the corners of my mouth,
and when I slog down the street,
guts slide out of my shoes,
and passers-by slip in my shit.
I started crying three months ago.
Now, I weep every morning for you.
It feels like milk. I serve it up
and savor it with eggs and toast.
If I would have known how fickle
of heart you were, if I could have seen it,
couldn’t I have seen it somehow, you bitch?
Didn’t hate rest on your skin somewhere,
in the flecks of your green eyes,
in your bubble-gum breath, your languid laugh?
I mean, I should have seen it, shouldn’t I have?
You tell me, you tell me, you bitch.
Should I have seen your black little heart.
Should I have seen the Gestapo in you.
Should I have seen the boot in my face.
For now you’ve given me the hate
that I know you have.
And what am I to do with me.
What am I to do with this
alphabet of hate.
Rejection Letter
By Tiffany Landers
Steve,
You know how on The Office Angela was engaged to Andy even though she really had no feelings for him and was really still in love with Dwight? How she only wanted to marry Andy because it was the "safe" thing to do? And how she started sleeping with Dwight and everyone else in the building knew about it except him? Remember how you said Andy had to be an ignorant prick for never realizing it?
The wedding is off.
Jan
Contributor Bios
David Michaels (David Aho) retired from the Michigan Department Of Corrections after working 20 years in a maximum-security prison in Marquette, Michigan. He is a graduate of Northern Michigan University and also attended Michigan Technological University. David has written hundreds of newspaper and magazine articles and is currently working on an adventure novel. In addition to working as a correction officer, David has been an administrative manager for an export company, a small business owner, a salesman, carpenter, office manager, steeplejack and professional musician. He is a veteran of the U.S. Navy, the proud father of three and has been happily married for twenty-eight years.
Katharine Bjornestad is an English teacher turned librarian who believes books and writing should be at the heart of all teaching! I have been writing since I was six, though I took a hiatus to raise small boys. I experiment with poetry and short story, but young adult novel writing is my first love. Tolkien first awakened me to the potential of the imagination. I love to create worlds and craft words.
Wendy Dager is an award-winning professional freelance writer whose articles, essays and short stories have appeared in numerous publications. Her quirky humor has been seen nationwide in greeting cards, and on buttons, T-shirts and key chains. She accepts payment for her work in cash, check or chocolate.
Born and raised in New York City, Margaret Fieland has been around art and music all her life. She is the mother of three grown sons, an accomplished flute and piccolo player She is an avid science fiction fan, and selected Robert A. Heinlein's “Farmer in the Sky” for her tenth birthday, now long past. In spite of making her living as a computer software engineer, she turned to one of her sons to format the initial version of her website, a clear illustration of the computer generation gap. You may visit her website at http://www.margaretfieland.com.
Jackie Hosking writes short and sweet for children and short and silly for adults. She was born in Nigeria to Cornish parents and now lives happily in Australia. Jackie edits the Children's Writing Industry newsletter, PASS IT ON, and she runs a manuscript editing service for anything that rhymes. Her website can be found at www.jackiehosking.com.
Shannon Walsh is an associate editor at Zoland Poetry and a poetry reader for Fringe Magazine. She recently received her MFA at Emerson College. Shannon has reviews published on www.zolandpoetry.com and poems forthcoming in Soundings East.