Sunday, November 30, 2008

December 2008










This month features Isaiah Vianese and Channie Greenberg


Isaiah Vianese

A SONNET TO CONFESSIONALISM
for MaryJo Mahoney

Our first evening frost has come to pin
us to this goddamn house, this rusty hinge
you call our 'domicile'. Sexton's been locked
in an upstairs room all month, cracking
her thin ribs under some man's hard-edged wheel,
white Plath tinkers with a corpse's bones in
the basement. She's always speaking German
and giving me some improper salute.

We've been too long in this ice-cap of a
town, Robin. Too long wishing we could mouth
some other emotion. You say I speak
too much of skunk hours, dancing Mr. Bones,
but I say we must get out of here, this
headless horse of a home. Robin, trust me.

LEAVING

I've been driving three days over hills,
and the trees don't like me much,
holding their hands up to god.
They're evangelical. There's constant praying.

I'm thinking about the moment I left,
your hair wrapped in a messy red bun,
and I'm thinking we're done, Robin.
I'm thinking about those days with the IV
and I lying like a cadaver, palms down,
the stupid tulips burning their hot yellow,
and you not there, they pinned me.

I imagined them wrapping my body
in the death blankets, draining the fluids
into a plastic basin, packing up my silver watch,
my wallet with its picture of you
flaunting a neater do, the jeans with the broken knee.

I'm frayed, and I'm searching. Leaving. Left.

Isaiah's poems are forthcoming in The Fourth River and 63 Channels. He lives and writes in Missouri.


KJ Hannah (Channie) Greenberg



Watching Raindrops Dance


We discover self-reliance,
Between pieces of white bread,
To Divine incorporation.

School mornings, though,
Life's jobs completed on autopilot,
I often have to guess 'hello'.

The kids' return to 'finding'
Themselves frequently elicits
My new moments,
Plus all the power of sleepy gray cats.

Cityscape perspectives yield
More than sparrow goings-on.
Sometimes I can grasp able-bodied knowledge.

Christina Rosetti's 'Birthday' to a Satirical Beat

My heart is like a singing bird,
Whose nest is in a desert bare.
My heart is like an apple tree,
Whose limbs are plucked and over sheared.
My heart is like a snail's shell,
That rots beneath a brackish sea.
My heart is sadder than all these,
Because my love has come to me.

Raise me a platform of cotton rags,
Hang it with wolf skin and crocodiles.
Carve it in stone and lizards' toes,
Amid serpents and beetle eyes.
Work it in darkness and brittle twigs,
Work in gray mornings and blackened skies,
Because the low point of my life,
Has come, my love has come to me!

Channie Greenberg has been published in many journals including The Jerusalem Post, Calligraphy, Hamodia, The Externalist, Doorknobs and Bodypaint, Type-A Moms, Fallopian Falafel Zine, The Clarity of the Night, Joyful! and Tuesday Shorts, Poetica Magazine, Bewildering Stories, The Blue Jew Yorker, AntipodeanSF, and The Mother Magazine.

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