by Magella Cantara
I’m changing my hair trying to get so far from you.
None of the colors I’ve tried are working so I keep changing
Trying something new to keep recreating myself
To gain a sense of purpose but all I’ve come to understand is that
I’m playing into a dark well
There’s a void in me here
one of many in fact, I’ve come across
pieces of my autopsy
The surface is covered in blood thicker than copper my sight gets drunk at the smell
I’m constantly stumbling, skipping, & smiling afraid of every layered out confession stacked 20 tables high for the number of years that have stretched me apart.
I’m not ready to get access to a bottle so easy afraid of the death certificate that will be hungover
All because this lonely well never was well.
Because The Crossroads Always Have Oil And Water
by Liam Woodworth-Cook
Strawberries and cream out of season
as if we are to enjoy our pleasures freely.
A truck is not a boat or a plane yet gas
is gas— a venom in movement. I am faced
with the high strides of dignity,
that my simple dessert can come
with contemplation of God and the rubber
taste of slaved expediency.
Could Johnson still have met the devil
in the 21st century? Where now the traffic lights
breeze the semi’s on their journey.
What enticement is the devil’s hand
in giving music for the exchange of souls—
The god in my nighttime treat is not the caped counter
to the devil I describe, but a questioning of myself.
My mythos hasn’t been kind to God nor my guilt
of participatory serving in the pillaging plot,
served my healing.
It must be the season why,
I remember when fruit grows.
Length of continent, of rough gloved
hand, of replacing Sun and Moon.
It’s as if suddenly I had grown in fear
of a being whose name my parents never spoke.
Attracted to something cold, and sweet.
I Awoke To Find The Songs Of My Own
|by Liam Woodworth-Cook
It was something to do with the way the flower unfolded
as a Monarch butterfly. I tell you of a Monarch because
as much as it was about Spring, it was Autumnal in nature.
It always is. The soft orange, the oak leaf
crumpled. I was born in October, upon the fringe of the veil.
The swaying back and forth, like a long lone smear
of red paint on canvas. Burnt edges.
This mind of mine wonders amongst dreams.
At times it is like walking out on my father’s fire escape,
rickety and exposed at each shuddering step.
I am the arsonist afterall, a bellowing boy
of no particular tragedy.
I spent some time later reading of tragedies—
I call it history, the weight of freight trains.
It was in the 6th grade when I read
of the transformation from Begonias to
Monarch. I thought about the way
George Harrison sang “My Sweet Lord”.
I didn’t believe in God then.
I have a complex relationship
with God now. What struck me
was how the song summoned
truth. How the Begonias blossomed
into something else. One life to the next.
Myths at the breaking twilight.
I found myself opening a matchbox
amazed at each flaring strike.
Curious to what truths
I keep unknown.
Categories: Arts & Culture