Alex Bell, Light and Dark

Speed Date

“I am not,” Shena said, “Santa Cruz del Islote
with too little open space. A person
should have undeveloped areas, don’t you think?

Nor am I”¾she shuddered¾“Aogashima,
defended by escarpments, with a crater.

I would always avoid a crater, in which you sit
staring at the rim, seeing nothing more,
everything gone. Nor am I Ellidaey

with its lonely house in an expanse of grass.
No trees for birds, and the ones that pass overhead

in skeins would resemble thoughts
that leave you empty. Nor am I Burano¾

too accessible. Don’t you think a person
should not be too accessible?

Oh but you like the Basilica. Let me tell you

my spirituality can’t be shown on walls.

Am I Nihomachi? No. Nice woods,

but home to far too few. Not Papa Westray.

No airstrip for me¾if you want to reach me
be slow. Ah, time and metaphor allocation
running out. Let’s say I’m Jumo then.

If you were Iniö you would be nice and close.

I’m joking. Over to you.

You’ve got your two minutes before the bell.”

Further details

Dennis Maulsby, KU

Traditional Haiku

dawn diamonds the lake

dog and I jog paw-soft paths

legs in two-four time

Evolved Haiku

stabbing my heel

a yellow Lego

hides in the carpet

Scifiku

puppy chews

something rubbery

spits out a dead alien

Fantasyku

hammock-man snores

in his Armani cologne

fairies frolic

Horrorku

fangs sprout

she says

your neck or mine

Further details

M. Kelly Peach, Please Do Not Tap on the Glass

Mommy! Mommy! Watch Me, Mommy!

          The flower, driving and driving

and raging, screams,

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Scalded, trapped in the front seat,

like a fetus, curled and silent,                          

he has no answer.

Meanwhile, the light,

lying on the floor,

is frying chicken in the kitchen.

Curled and silent,

she considers the propriety

of thrusting her hands

into the scalding grease.

But decides not to,

just yet.

The guest bedroom has one window.

Open, it looks out,

through red and white gauze curtains,

at a playground.

A little boy, his new yellow kite

in dimpled fist,

is there with his mother and sisters.

They are playing marbles

while his chubby legs churn

across the mown grass.

His kite is raised,

but, straining for the breeze,

it refuses to fly.

Running across

the sward, ignored

and far away,

he screams,

“Mommy! Mommy! Watch me, Mommy!”

Further details