POETRY


Melanie Brazzell

buoyant fragments
Begin trying

William Doreski
A Novelist's Eye

Ryan Quinn Flanagan
26 Years
Musings of a Man Impelled to
Moments of Mad Wakefulness


Kristine Ong Muslim
Geek Girl

Benjamin Nardolilli
Contra Cosmos

Caleb Puckett
Meeting by Morning
Call for Exodus


Ross White

A Roman

And hung there, uncooked meat in his teeth,
muttering Hosannah. Hallelujah. Mea culpa.

And pressed back by the welts in his palms,
ragtag red lions raised on his skin.

But lamented his suffering aloud to the Lord,
who hears the human body as an instrument.

The dried blood, tangle in the thatch of beard,
matted like sap above cuts in the lush garden of chest.

The trembling at mouth's edge, the weak-knees,
the weak-lung, neck-droop, the voice and knell.

Would not have sung louder wearing thorns.
Would not have sung louder in limp robes.

How colossal the error. How dire. How divine
a breath, a breath, a breath, a breath.



Actaeon

Cursed early, at Chiron’s cave,
taught to hunt by a half-breed
betraying the better half, slave
to the human part atop the steed,
Actaeon’s arms grew strong, stable
with a bow. But Chiron’s legs
remembered, like deer or sable,
twitch and danger, a reflex
triggered when he held a bow
which Actaeon could not affect.
How could Actaeon not know,
how could Chiron not suspect
his wedded body, man to colt,
would betray his conscious mind,
the hunted, galloping part revolt?
Actaeon, deep-forested, hunting hind,
came across a bathing goddess.
While Artemis looked away,
Actaeon could sense nothing amiss:
his legs, his whole, bid him stay
where Chiron’s might have felt the nag
of instinct. Nude Artemis,
for his stare, made Actaeon a stag,
his tongue mute to reminisce,
his new hind legs tense for flight.
He sensed what Chiron never taught
as he slipped into the Parnithian night
on slender calves too easily caught.























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