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I won’t end with Rage.
I love a man I know could go blind-- And not in twenty-five years, And not in a slow fade, But quickly the color of the world gone dark In his jade eyes. One joy in it is He can always remember my outline by tracing it. I know I’ll be resentful one day Leading him through the apartment, “Here is that chair again. On your left,” I’ll snap. I’m left with my rage at nothing. But I won’t end there. I can see enough for us both. (Mike Zimmerman is a writer of short stories and poetry, as well as a middle school Writing teacher in East Brooklyn. His previous work has been published in Cutbank, A & U Magazine, The Painted Bride, Wilde Magazine, Caravel, Aji, Arkana, 8 West Press, Steam Ticket, Typehouse Literary Magazine, and Zingara Poetry Review, and various anthologies. He is the 2015 recipient of the Oscar Wilde Award from Gival Press and a finalist for the Hewitt Award in 2016. In 2018, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his story “Doppelganger” in Two Cities Review. Mike lives in Brooklyn with his husband and their cat. Learn more @mazaffect.)
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I See You
There's this thing I do, I bite my lips and pick the skin off my feet and one day a friend told me those were symptoms of anxiety. I had tightness in my chest and felt like I couldn't breathe so I went to the doctor and they didn't help me but they told me it could be anxiety. I backed out of three job interviews and told myself that the inner voice I was listening to was God. But. Maybe. It was actually anxiety. I felt sick to my stomach and threw up the whole time I was pregnant and I'm pretty sure it wasn’t all in my head, but do you think it had anything to do with anxiety? I screamed at my two year old for acting like a two year old and yelled at my husband for listening to me when I asked him to buy me fudge brownies and flew into full body-shaking rage episodes when my baby woke up early from his nap and then I finally thought maybe, maybe, It was time to take a look at this thing called anxiety. I hyperventilated over taking a pill and asked “how will I know if it's helping” and “what is it supposed to be like” and “what if it's wrong” and “how long before I know” and “is this normal or is this the medication or is it...you know... the anxiety?” I drove all across the freeways of Las Vegas and remembered panicking on small town Idaho roads and realized how much of my life had been affected by this thing I hadn't even known how to name and now we drive together or take walks and have talks or listen to Taylor Swift or play solitaire at 2AM or meditate or stretch or try to just breathe together or ruminate over a thousand questions or watch a comfort show and eat fudge brownies or even sometimes bite my lips and pick the skin on my feet, saying "Oh, hey anxiety, I see you". (Tia Wray has a BA in English and a MA in health psychology. She turned to poetry as a way to process trauma therapy, and her themes have expanded into topics related to healing, grief, connection, and nature. In addition to being a writer, she is a mother and a meditator. She currently lives in Västerås, Sweden.) I'm Mars and You Are Venus
I'm Mars, Abandoned and barren, I hide myself under miles of blood red sands, I'm a cold, ancient, and mysterious existence, I zoom thorough the void of blackness, All alone, all unlovable, and presumably dead, My only company, Are two shards of my broken heart, Orbiting me silently. You are Venus, You are a world of rage and fire, you have scorching oceans of lava, I hear volcanoes rip and tear your world, You hide below your impenetrable miles of toxic clouds, Powerful gusts of winds envelop your surface, Your protection against this brutal existence, Nothing will ever get in or out, I get it, I see it crystal clear, and I hear you, You don't trust anyone or anything. I'm Mars and you are Venus, You are too hot to touch, I'm too frigid and rigid for love, But I do know, We have been both brutally betrayed, You and I shed tears and screeched in agony. For millions and millions of years, It is no wonder, You are a world of fire and ire, And I'm a realm of emptiness and coldness. I'm Mars and you are Venus, But do know that I'm soothed, When once in a couple of years our orbits meet, I know I can never touch you, And you will never love me, But I will always adore you from the distance, I'm terrified of the thought of not getting a glimpse of you, I'm always tortured to watch you fly away from me, I'm Mars, a world of scars and tears. Surrender (David Grigorian was born deaf in Armenia and got his first hearing aids at the age of eleven. David has been to a lot of places such as Ukraine, Black sea, Japan, and settled in USA, Colorado. He began to experiment with poetry in his teenage years as he experienced first love, first best friend, and first heart break. With poetry David explored and tried to understand life. He had attended and graduated Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design. His writings have been published in local newsletters and a magazine. David's life dream was to be a published author and a poet.) Pieces
i am pieces, shadows of trees, crests of waves, not a fragmented whole but the parts itself. i must go down to the ocean and watch the waves, sea change, a performance of space. let water fill-- i mean, i guess, i tried, maybe in some ways, to find a space within a space. as if it could cleanse all that is broken. drown oneself in a fixed place. i will never-- understand, i can’t seem to control, the waves do not, listen, see, even this poem is-- shattered. (Wendy Garnier is a psychologist, poet, and performer based in the seaside town of Aarhus, Denmark. Her work is published in Expanded Field Journal, Defenestration Magazine, and the anthology At the River’s Mouth, among others. Please visit her website at www.wendygarnier.com.) The Perfectionism Police
Perfectionist. Obsessive. Nit-picking. Workaholic. Scared of failure. These traits make me feel sick. They remind me of bingeing: bingeing on life. Wanting to get everything done, in a very sick sort of way. In an: “I’m-out-of-control-need-to-keep-going-can’t-take-a-break-I-deserve-to-suffer-sort of way.” Perfectionism is so elusive. People think it’s good – but they don’t understand how perverted it is. It is a desire for power that strips you of all power. It is a dream – but it’s actually a nightmare, Because you don’t get to wake up before you fall. Perfectionism is so dysfunctional. You think you are getting stronger – but you are actually losing strength. You have an assignment to finish. But you don’t get to choose your pace. The Perfectionism Police choose it for you. These minions in your head. They call the shots. You are forced to stay up all night. They make you finish this assignment at knifepoint. No breaks. No food. Not even water! You are SO thirsty – absolutely parched. You are completely empty. Hollow. There is NOTHING left to lose. You sneak some water from the tap in the bathroom. But then they catch you! They turn the lights on. “What are you doing,” they ask. “I’m so sorry, I just had to,” you respond. The sobs are rising in your throat. You know you are in big trouble. Now you are drowning. They make you drink until you are completely distended. The pain is insurmountable. Then you rupture. They are your demise: The Perfectionism Police. (Athena Milios is a Greek-Canadian psychiatric researcher and writer based in Nova Scotia, Canada. She holds an undergraduate Degree in Medical Science and a Master’s in Psychiatry Research, both from Dalhousie University. Athena has been living with mental illness since the age of fifteen. She strongly advocates for mental health in her community. She is the author of several psychiatric publications as well as some creative writing pieces, including poetry and short stories.) Broken but easily fixed
Again, you have broken and I watch you pale with pain as nurses in comic-book scrubs press forward with cannulas and soothing words to bind you whole At seven, there was no slow smiling morphine to ease injury into unforgetting, just bright white cries rending silent air, playground birds startled as you were scooped from the earth. Now, the grainy film shows a violent shift a rupture of the natural order an earthquake of bone that swells your wrist your long toes touch the bed’s end and your voice dives deep as you tell the story and the nurses, not much older, roll their eyes and shake their chuckling heads boys They check your name and again and five times more; each time you thank them smiling blearily through night’s quiet. I think of the wounds yet to scar your body and heart and sit, at ease, knowing that this simple brokenness can be easily fixed. (Clare Roche is a Sydney based writer. Her poetry can be found in Dwell Time (UK), Leopardskins and Lime (Berlin), Uppagus (US), and HOOT (US, forthcoming). Her creative non-fiction was shortlisted for the national Nillumbik Prize for Contemporary Writing (2020).) Pinwheels
Purple clouds spin like pinwheels I shoot my crimson arrow droplets burst my soul falls with them still my ego is drenched with sorrow. I shoot my crimson arrow I am high as that child’s kite still my ego is drenched with sorrow my sigh of relief with every beat, my heart. I am high as that child’s kite my reflection is muddled in that puddle my sigh of relief with every beat, my heart a tiger butterfly cries. My reflection is muddled in that puddle droplets burst my soul falls with them a tiger butterfly cries purple clouds spin like pinwheels. Dusk At dusk the demons consume the hues of pink, orange, and red that streak the horizon like messy paintbrush strokes, but what remains on the corner of their mouths is the color red like lipstick or blood. Pollen The pollen coats my fingertip like gold, but with a single blow this vanishes. (Sophia Falco is the author of: The Immortal Sunflower (UnCollected Press, 2019), a winner of The Raw Art Review Poetry Chapbook Contest. Falco graduated magna cum laude from the UCSC. Her poems have appeared in The Poetry Matters Project, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Indolent Books, Wingless Dreamer, among other journals.) “How Do You Self-Love?”
It is the healing that is felt as droplets of water dampen the skin under a warm shower relieving pain in the body, the mind, the soul. As well as the stillness that is created as a result of conscious breathing of mindful meditation to soothe the thoughts for just one moment. These thoughts may bring distress but fear not, they cannot last for with a journal and a pen you can end their perceived control- transform thoughts into words, words into sentences, sentences into peace. To indulge in the foods that make your insides sing with notes as beautiful as the smile that you generate when you decide you deserve to be gifted. To allow for an extra hour of sleep, or two and arise with time to water the plants, finish the book, tidy the space, complete the task that makes you feel worthy, productive, accomplished. Yet through all this, this happiness, this gift, one truth comes to light- oh, how selfish it is to self-love and how lovely it is to be selfish. (Leisly was born and raised in New York and has been writing poetry since she was a young girl. With a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and a Master’s Degree in Forensic Psychology, she is extremely passionate about criminal justice reform. Diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, she is also deeply aware of the significant impact mental health has on the lives of countless individuals. Being the daughter of immigrants from the Dominican Republic, Leisly is especially conscious of the various ways mental health is viewed and ultimately dealt with within families of color. She currently lives in Staten Island, NY with her parents, younger sister, and new puppy.) All I Ever
Show me what I'm meant to do with this grief; Thought I should carry it, keep it close, like I've done with all I've ever known. The pressure to hold steady is taking its toll. For forever I've managed, kept it quiet, at a hush so low subdued violence. Been trying to help me. But I can't help it. It feels like it's all I've ever known. Acceptance came and went with the present. Left more than it took with it, and I mean the most, been sorting through, breathing it in meeting ghosts. Annotations scribbled in condensation keep record of the going, when it's tough, validation since it's been long enough. Been trying to help me. But I can't help it. It feels like it's all I've ever known... It feels like it's all I'll ever know. (Tia Reiser is based in Stony Point, New York, Tia Reiser has documented her experience through words since 2010. Initially, she turned to poetry in order to work through the ambiguous emotions she found difficult to externalize. Her poetry is authentically themed around mental health and learning to grow through her own vulnerability.) 9/ 11
In Cather’s story, “Paul’s Case,” after the coach rides, the baths, the tortoise shell brushes, mirrors, satin sheets, chandeliers, plush carpets and ornate tables, after the champagne and caviar feast, Paul takes his baggage of flesh draped in soft clothes onto a final coach into final woods, and down to the tracks, and hurls himself into the path of a locomotive, choosing this form of death over poison, pistol, or rope. It seems he wants nothing to remain of Paul, wants Paul himself obliterated, wiped clean from earth’s map, no corpse, no likeness for mourners to view and close the lid on, and lower into an earthen hole. Now, a hundred years after Cather’s Paul, a father named Paul bids his family goodbye, not knowing it’s his final goodbye. A farewell in the dark: he leans to kiss his wife’s cheek, and then to the room of his sleeping son, also Paul (an only child of an only child), and leans and kisses his son’s brow and, with light approaching from the east, walks out his gate and leaves his familiar street, not knowing the finalities of these minutes remaining, unknown to him, this Paul of September 2001, and to others “on floor” when the plane crashes through, and the sky falls and turns into a celestial inferno. Nothing left of September Paul and those on his floor, nothing left of the floor, or the shoes he was wearing, or his teeth, his wallet, nothing left there. How could he have so much, one moment, and then not even his teeth, his hair, his family. How different his case from that of Cather’s brooding protagonist. (Peter Mladinic has published three books of poems: Lost in Lea, Dressed for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington, all with the Lea County Museum Press. He lives in Hobbs, New Mexico.) |
The Beautiful Space-
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