our hearts beat
we give this process little thought
we expect it
it is the thunder of life storm
but between each clap
there is a chasm
where silent decisions are made
and we are not the decisionmaker
by Bruce Boston
The memories of
the dead survive…
He was there in Gaul
with the Roman legions,
marching into a winter
so bitterly harsh it
made his teeth ache.
She was there in Dresden,
when fire bombs fell,
coming of age fast
with horrors she
could not forget.
He was there in Dallas
when the President
was assassinated.
He died never telling
what he knew.
by Bruce Boston
Her Majesty is startled
awake in the night
by the hands
of a dead lover
exploring her body,
touching her in
ways she had never
known before,
the very one
she had assassinated
for his flagrant
and gross infidelities,
the only one
she had ever loved,
as much as she
could love anyone,
his ghost hands
in the night,
taking possession
of her own.
Appeared in Silver Blade
by Ryan Stone
are weaving through the dull
half light where, grey
amongst willows, ghosts
lurk—waiting to crawl
from root and bough,
into my turbulent mind.
My thoughts descend
to the angry red patch
invading my flesh. I want
to fling off my shirt and tear at
my future. Five miles behind, my
wife lies asleep, eyes battened
against this new dawn,
while I sink to my knees
in the mist and scream,
I deny! I defy!
My children are sleeping—
unaware of the curse
by Sara Backer
Stone lantern,
stone basin,
stepping stones.
The path garden
is completely stoned.
Maple leaves drop
hints. Pines are pruned,
wired, weighted. The moss
is swept.
I, too, am part of this design,
unplanned
and unpredictable.
Published in Sleet
by Ryan Stone
a musette
Blood moon,
cold witness to
this tune
I sing
to the night. I'm
missing
old dreams—
a face, pale as
moonbeams.
CHIARE, FRESCHE ET DOLCI ACQUE...
Chiare, fresche et dolci acque,
ove le belle membra
pose colei che sola a me par donna;
gentil ramo ove piacque
(con sospir’ mi rimembra)
a lei di fare al bel fiancho colonna;
herba et fior’ che la gonna
leggiadra ricoverse
co l’angelico seno;
aere sacro, sereno,
ove Amor co’ begli occhi il cor m’aperse:
date udïenza insieme
a le dolenti mie parole extreme.
by Bruce Boston
Bold
as the teeth
of a werewolf.
Uncertain
as an intergalactic flight.
Sharp
as an email from
a corporate raider
on the rise.
Needy
as a hurricane survivor.
Hardened and hurt
as the injured victim
of an armed robbery.
Sensuous
as an imagined interlude
with a cinema icon.
Seething
as a moral condition
in the twenty-first century.
Inarguable
as the razor knives
and automatic weapons
of a survivalist.