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MARY HAMRICK Ginetta's SecretStan swats his girl five shades lighter than blueberries. His secret history--a shameful thing. Sometimes my lips swell like Brazilian cherries and I swivel away from him. I swivel toward him, burnt useless under his gaze. And sometimes by 1 a.m., he's whittling notches onto this tropical body, so I come 'round to his way: his drive, his wish, his craving. Nasty blood vessels pop on his forehead-- must I beg again? My body is a quiet room of imperfection: strip off the skin and look for yourself! Late morning, Momma visits and says, Ginetta, you have dark silent-movie eyes that sing ballads of last night. Huddled by the kitchen table kneading flour into dough-- my womb is exposed on a long, powdered table. Fingers pinching as they crush, lift, slam–vigoroso. Tired limbs slip downward onto a chair, a chair all-knowing and full of devil details. Momma sits like a man, her long cotton dress is open-wide, her floured dusty apron reeks of pungent citrus fragrance. Let's see, Momma--how can I describe pain? My small mistakes will resurrect hands that knuckle the body sticky-sweet. Old woman, let me tell you the secrets of each night that shies and smalls a woman. . . . and after the evening meal, he will holler, lay down. Whey-faced, I will smell like almond milk; my lips will swell like Brazilian cherries as I slide in place under the slope of Stan's bony framework. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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 MARY HAMRICK | 06.04: 047 page navigation
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MARIE KAZALIA 'that moment...'that moment on the flat rooftop in the hot dry tropical sky me the only foreigner white woman amid brown as I try scrubbing my pink lace Dior demi-cup underwire bra on the black granite washing stone chiseled with texture creating a scrub board surface slanted washing soap in a blue bar bucket of cold water the hot air--bright sun looking down at my own hands fumbling with my efforts trying yet stop in amazement at the moment stare into my mind the ridiculous incongruities in my life living ways that make no sense to me or anyone else yet that moment of the most powerful significance little Siva comes to my rescue just eighteen laughing at me giving a lesson in how to wash clothes in a bucket on a washing stone in the heat and poverty of inconvenience South India - Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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 MARIE KAZALIA | 06.04: 047 page navigation
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JASON FRALEY Alternative to HeavenMy lungs burn the universe, incinerate the same atoms that guided Oedipus into his mother. Sins from electrons heat my body, but I'm no devil. I exhale steam purified of sulfur, yet it soon slips through night's canvas, cuts the big dipper's chords. As stars spill into my palm, I realize I'm winter's black hole, another frostburnt body sinking like ashes toward Heaven. Copyright 2006, all rights retained by the poet |
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 JASON FRALEY - Music, nature, philosophy, and contemporary poetry are his major interests and inspiration. A loving fiancée and oversized Pez collection play important roles in his days. FRALEY's poetry has appeared in 'The Copperfield Review', 'The Sidewalk's End', 'Lunatic Chameleon', 'Lotus Blooms Journal', and 'Poems Niederngasse'. | 06.04: 047 page navigation
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