Between us 
 
Between the rust and bone of seasons
And tattering metal teeth born of clinical instruments
My grandmother surrendered her pugnacious spirit
And saw, from her hospital bed, the great plains
On which her husband waited all those absent years.
 
Between thick blood and burnt swollen flesh
My aunt finally nodded subtly to a bleak forecast
Accepting the towers rising from her breasts
To be the final announcement of her fading beauty,
Tearing her away from two children still in grade school.
 
I embrace the quiet places that their voices once filled
There is always reminisce - the aftermath of greatness leaves an echo
That time will never lay to rest.
 
 
(Johann grew up in the Free State on the border of Lesotho and South Africa. He studied communication and industrial psychology at the northwest university in Potchefstroom and currently works in television and as freelance writer in Johannesburg. He has also written two international children’s books – Frankie Learns to Fly & Bhubesi. He has published poetry both locally and internationally, in journals such as The Kalahari Review, The Rye Whiskey Review and Down In The Dirt. He is a finalist in the esteemed Ingrid Jonker A la poetic competition and some of his work will appear in the Sea Glass Hearts American Poets Anthology published in the United States later this year. Currently, Johann is working on his debut individual poetry collection in Afrikaans. His first individual English collection has been picked up and will be published in the States in early 2020).

7 days after my sister’s death
 
this morning i peeled and sliced
a potato into flat triangles and
crooked rectangles
heated cooking oil
dropped the off-white pieces
onto the hot pan
they fried until crispy brown
then i cracked 3 eggs
cooked over easy
the thick orange-yellow
yolks were intact
as they awaited the fork’s
puncture that would
create the slow luxurious
release of the thick liquid
over the slightly salted
fried potatoes
 
i warmed a flour tortilla
on the stove’s open flame
flipping it over by hand
feeling the fire nip at
the tips of my fingers
and suddenly it comes to me:
if this were to be my last breakfast
i would die a happy man
 
dear sister, i hope it was like this
(no stanza break)
for you on the day you ate your last meal
i hope you smiled and thought to yourself
“damn, this is good”
 
(Vargas received his MFA from the University of New Mexico, 2010. He was recipient of the 2011 Taos Summer Writers’ Conference’s Hispanic Writer Award. Currently, he resides in Beloit, WI. His three books of poetry are McLife, American Jesus, and Guernica, revisited. He edited/published The Mas Tequila Review from 2010-2015.)

 Winter Solstice
 
Darkness
at five o’clock
is not a giant star
collapsing.
 
Not gravity
compressed
into a tiny space,
swallowing me
in its center.
 
I can still be seen
without a telescope.
 
If I keep my eyes
upward, watching.
 
For a little
more light
each day.

 
What Did Not Happen Today
 
A deer through the windshield
A tree smashing the roof
A snake in the toilet
 
Bedbugs
Burglars
Bears
 
Not one. Not today.
 
And you did not fall down the stairs
or vomit blood.
 
You did not.
 
Your heart should be floating,
buoyant as a beach ball
on the river that did not rise
and spoil your evening cocoa
before snuggling into bed.
 
 
(Jacqueline Jules is the author of three chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum (Finishing Line Press), Stronger Than Cleopatra (ELJ Publications), and Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press. Her work has appeared in over 100 publications including Poetica, Beltway Poetry News, Cider Press Review, Potomac Review, Inkwell, Hospital Drive, and Imitation Fruit. She is also the author of 40 books for young readers.  Visit www.jacquelinejules.com )

​Thinking Outside [BOXES]
 
 
You say you’re still single because
nobody has ticked all the boxes.
Advice: discard empty [     ]es,
do war dance as you flatten 
coffins that housed nothing
but bubbles, barren imagining.
 
Who knows, somebody lovable
might glimpse your mad moves
along Not-So-Great [      ] Wall,
do an engaging mating dance
in your unblocked direction.

(Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza, Tasmania, and, for now, Melbourne. Two collections published:  Tasmanian Tiger Breaks Silence (1988) ;  Sand in the Sole (2014). Lake won Elwood(Aus) Poetry Prize 2016,  Lost Tower Publications(UK) Poetry Comp 2017 and Melbourne Spoken Word Poetry Festival/The Dan Competition 2018. Besides Australia he has been published in Canada, UK, USA, Mauritius, India, West Indies and Italy.)
 

memorize
 
i memorize you.
your dreams and your aspirations
your favorite restaurant order and the way you take your coffee, or don’t.
your favorite songs - the lyrics are engrained in my mind.
the shampoo you use and the way you roll your toothpaste tube
your birth date is on a loop.
the sound of your voice - I can always remind myself how you sound.
and how you feel - and how you kiss.
your pet peeves and fears - all things I’m too aware of.
your scars - both emotional and physical - it’s like they’re mine too.
your phone number - those 10 numbers won’t leave.
and you memorize me.
my triggers and med dosages.
my license plate number, which I don’t even know.
my birth mark - the scars on my right wrist.
the way my right eye scrunches a little more than most when I smile.
my coffee order - decaf, soy, and all. 
my favorite flower and the snacks I want stocked at your place.
the makeup wipes I use and my brand of face lotion.
the perfume you love - the one you searched for hours for.
 
so what do we do now?
how can you forget something you’ve memorized?
and what if I really do forget?
your voice is already harder to recall.
your touch has been absent for so long.
what if you really do fade?
 
or what if every time I see patterned socks my heart breaks again?
or every time I hear “bloom” the pain is brand new?
 
I’m not sure which is worse.
memorizing you for the rest of my life, or forgetting who you were.
 
​ 
there is nothing more to say
 
They are all gone away,
The house is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
 
It is not like yesterday,
The day is meant to kill,
They are all gone away.
 
All the morning can do is delay,
Fate has it's own will,
There is nothing more to say.
 
Our bodies only betray,
Our skin begins to chill,
They are all gone away.
 
I wish they were here today,
They had many dreams to fulfill,
There is nothing more to say.
 
But alas, life only lasts a day,
Love itself becomes ill,
They are all gone away,
And there is nothing more to say.
 
(Serafina Valenzuela is a college writer and poet. She is studying to become a trauma therapist and intends to use her experiences to aid others in finding ways to heal. Her writings center around her own traumas, in which she reveals the realities of her pain while instilling hope into her works.)