Rina Palumbo

Breakfast Over the Atlantic

The tray table is too high for me, my legs dangle and the seat belt I had so proudly closed with that clang-snap sound is so tight around my waist that my hands barely reach the miracles from above.  One half of a grapefruit, yellow segments in a bright yellow dimpled rind bowl, pale petals of pulp in translucent white pith holders radiating out from a bright red maraschino cherry, stem curling in surprise. Scrambled eggs, a yellow scoop, convex, with a green spring of parsley, in a comma, pausing. A white plastic cup with black tea. A white plastic cup with cola. Plastic cutlery on a white paper napkin. A packet of salt. A packet of pepper. Four packets of white sugar.  The woman sitting next to me with the window seat tears open a sugar and pours it into her coffee. She does the same thing with her grapefruit and then starts to eat her eggs, chews them, stops and then adds salt and pepper. The plastic knife and fork in her hands seem to know what to do.  I put one sugar on my grapefruit, one on my eggs, one in my tea and one in the cola.  I put all the salt and all the pepper on the eggs. I pick up my fork and start to eat my eggs, speckled now, salty, sweet and peppery in my mouth.  The woman is frowning at me and says something but I don't understand English so I start to cry, softly, just tears. As I cry, I force myself to eat and drink everything in front of me, the bright taste of sugar, sharp stings of pepper and the overwhelming flavor of salt. The grapefruit, coated with sugar sinking into the flesh, so hard to eat with a knife and fork but so very very sweet, that bright taste like the hard daylight from the window.  I finish with the cherry, leaving the stem, more a question now. Tea now so sweet, if cooling, so easy to swallow that taste, that pure sweetness.  Cola even sweeter, so I finish it before I finish the eggs, that  are so so salty, they cut my mouth, but I spear them and swallow without tasting and then I finish the tea. I leave the parsley next to the cherry stem, closing the quote. Everything is empty now but I am still crying. I want the sweetness to win over the salt. Salt on my face, though. I keep tasting too much salt. There just wasn't enough sugar. 

Rina Palumbo has a Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins and is working on a novel and two nonfiction long-form writing projects alongside short-form fiction and creative nonfiction. Her work is forthcoming or appears in Milk Candy, Bending Genres, Identity Theory, Stonecoast, and AutoFocus et al. @Rina_Palumbo

Jeremy Siedt

NFBRK

My work explores the boundaries and potential of corrosive metals and natural ephemeral material in painting. I capture the color and movement that occurs in the properties of individual elements during the process of corrosion. Metal is laid behind the canvas and stained by working from the front with different solutions, which bring the corrosive property through the canvas as it breaks down other various materials.

Process and material are the most important aspects of my creative method. My vigorous, repetitive motions act as an imprint and recording of the harsh interaction between destruction and rebirth. I am aware of the impermanence in these images, and embrace this factor in my studio practice. These paintings act as relics that expresses the impact and power nature has on our man-made materials. As we continue to value the creations of man we often forget that nature inevitably wins the battle of time in which we are then left to marvel in how nature reclaims the space and material it once owned. These paintings exhibit the complex relationship that exists within our society and nature as well as the intricate battle that takes place in nature itself when left to its own devices.

“There is a tangible depth to Siedt’s paintings that I don’t often feel when viewing most non-representational works. The palettes and textures that are chosen somehow are evocative of a feeling or vague setting almost immediately, and it doesn’t shift once locked in. It only cements itself further the longer it is studied. These paintings are depictions of sentience, manifesting in hidden corners of the wilderness, holding congress on matters never to be known by human minds and never meant to be witnessed by human eyes. There are secrets being told here.” Review by Daniel Fortunato

John Peter Beck

At the Farmers Market

The Farmer

My wares are spread 

across the checkered cloth.

This somber young man weighs 

each bright tomato in his hand

like a storm-brought shell,

A rare coin or a precious stone.

I am happy to wrap his two 

chosen tomatoes, a bunch

of carrots, one red pepper

and my last green onions for the day. 

I have prayed and worked, St. Benedict,

without disappointment. 

You have blessed my fields 

which will overflow tonight

onto this man’s dinner table.

When I walk my land, I see 

all the world’s hopes unfurl

In each well-ordered row.

The Beekeeper

Each small plastic bear

of honey shines

with its own light

on my stall shelves 

between the soap-maker

and the Amish family.

It is a miracle every day

when the bees fly back

to my hives. St. Valentine,

 you are the patron

of all lovers 

and all beekeepers.

 Each day, I watch my bees

and can only marvel

at their devotion, 

loyalty, the love 

fulfilled in the fleeting kiss 

within each flower,

the sweet nectar set aside

like a golden blessing for all.

The Flower Seller

St. Dorothea brought

flowers to her captors

before they martyred her.

My faith is not

that strong, but I still love

each of my bouquets, each basket

of gathered wildflowers 

and carefully gardened blooms.

Take this brace of lavender roses 

as proof that we do not 

need to die 

to see heaven’s glory.

This single bud, its curved petals 

can open it all for you.

John Peter Beck teaches in the labor education program at Michigan State University where he co-directs a program that focuses on labor history and the culture of the workplace, Our Daily Work/Our Daily Lives. His poetry has been published in a number of journals including The Seattle Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Louisville Review and Passages North among others.

Ryan Harper

Crow

In my place and a little beyond

the small murder sources remains.

There are flakes of a meal 

daily on my porch table. I see

to them, the morsels strewn.

Bobbing cautious by turns under

the awning, plucking bran collecting

nuts—a bird then a bird processes,

droops to kernels, raises to transport,

to soften in the yard bath.

I love them in light movements,

like the shadows winging wild 

and watchful around my soul,

neither feeding clear of risk:

blessed bran of darkened habit,

keen to the fragments of one man

thrown a little beyond his place. 

Ryan Harper is a Visiting Assistant Professor in Colby College’s Department of Religious Studies. He is the author of My Beloved Had a Vineyard, winner of the 2017 Prize Americana in poetry. Some of his recent work has appeared in Kithe, Consequence, Fatal Flaw, Tahoma Literary Review, and elsewhere. Ryan is the creative arts editor of American Religion Journal.

Katey Taylor

Internal Inflications

Yesterday you saw the crack in my head
between the matter and blood
it dripped sorrow and dread.

the needle and string
I used to stitch up my skull
split open
exposing
the fractured parts
of my soul.

as it uncontrollably oozed out
I was terrified of your judgment
consumed with self-doubt.

I cowered
ready to flee
until you gripped my hand
so I could see.

you ran my fingers
through your hair
our wide eyes met when I discovered
what was there.

a jagged gash
twice the size of mine
barley strung together
with rigid twine.

our foreheads touched
to align our healing scars
both knowing without them
we could never have made it this far.

Katey Taylor is a San Francisco Bay Area based writer. Her recent work has been published or is forthcoming in Brave Voices Magazine, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, and SWAAY Women’s Magazine. She’s written two young adult novels and is represented by Serendipity Literary Agency. Visit her at www.kateytaylor.com.

Cara Harvey

Hemispheres

One last drink. One last coffee. One last hug. That final window for martinis at happy hour. The afternoon sun hits us, reflecting through the bar’s windows. A flare stretches out across the counter, a patch slicing our pairing in two, the light an omen. Slippery streams of goodbye tears assisted by humidity, fat raindrops, and evening storms. Maybe we could have one more drink. Maybe one more swim. Maybe if we time it right, we can lay on the sand and feel that kind of soothed relief in the clear waters. We could even share a Slurpee, sipping back and forth loose chunks of iced sugar, while I complain about the sticky salt and heat.

I get on the plane. This is it. Hello. Goodbye. Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye again.

Over there it’s summer, here it’s winter still. It was autumn, when it turned into spring. The
days are longer again. Pockets of sun, pockets of rain, pockets of heat.

Now its winter again, but it’s also summer. I sweat all sticky and aglow. The drinks are flowing.
The distance is thick. Time keeps stretching out between us.

We never did get to do_____ and _____. I think on it until fixate.

Every evening when it feels cooler to breathe, I go for a walk. The sunsets here are dry, and
thin at this time of year.

Cara Harvey is a filmmaker who is passionate about the past, present, and future of storytelling, and seeks to find and foster connections between audiences, and communities. She often acts as a muse.

Elise Filter Von Arx

i grew up, i predicted the boat crash

ribbons rose as the wind took flight
his voice knew how to wash me on
the edge of his bed

and wring me out dry. i wonder

how many times will a man’s
unwelcome hands make home
on my body

Elise Filter Von Arx is a poet residing in Los Angeles, California. She’s working on completing her first anthology. Her latest work can be found in Soft Quarterly Vol. 7, out Fall 2022.