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December Wind

Last night I dreamt I was bleeding,
two cold gushes down my thigh.

I woke up thinking, yes, winter is coming—
winter and my son.

But tonight it’s only wind
hissing something awful

and I see my grandmother
before she died, gray lips open,

the softest moan filling the room
then ending

and I can’t believe the wind is coming
from the earth I have taught you

to love, night after night gliding my hands
down your rocky body

the way Demeter would collapse
suddenly to her knees

and begin to feel
her daughter’s dark descent.

- Wendy Wisner’s first book of poems, Epicenter, was published by CW Books in 2004. Her poems have appeared in The Spoon River Review, Rhino, Natural Bridge, The Bellevue Literary Review, Verse Daily, and elsewhere. Wendy previously taught writing and literature at Hunter College. She is now a La Leche League leader and is pursuing her Lactation Consultant (IBCLC) certification.

Some Memories

thrust themselves on us through cracks. We uproot them,
spray them dead. They loiter in junk drawers, snuggled
with old keys, hide in the charms of silver bracelets.
Sneaky ones slither on the resilient refrain
of a Beatles’ song, proclaim their tenacity in quilt patches.

Memories tailgate on the fragrances— leather and paint,
Camay soap, fresh basil. Against our will, they leap
into presence on an antique teapot, dusty with echoes,
skulk between autumn oaks and sweet gum,
intrude at the sight of old letters under worn lingerie.

We prefer to examine some on stainless steel tables
under cold fluorescent lights, scalpels poised.
We push them down, nail them into coffins,

muffle them with smoke and gauze and snow.
My brother says, “Remember—”
“No!” I say, “No.”

- Joan Mazza has worked as a microbiologist, psychotherapist, writing coach and seminar leader. Author of six books, including “Dreaming Your Real Self” (Penguin/Putnam 1998), her work has appeared in Potomac Review, Permafrost, Slipstream, Writer’s Digest, the minnesota review, and Playgirl. She now writes poetry in rural Virginia.

Eagle Head, Manchester, Massachusetts
– after Winslow Homer, 1870

This is how it happened.

The first one opened her eyes
At the sound of waves
Slapping against the sand.

The second one was startled into daylight
By the creaking of the pump.

The third was lazy,
And they had to rap twice on her window.

The dog zigzagged behind them.

They wet their hair.
They soaked their bathing costumes.
The hot sweat of the August night dissolved.

The single sailboat plying the harbor
Would never give them away.

- Elizabeth Lara has worked as a language teacher and editor. Her poems have appeared in The Rose & Thorn, Persimmon Tree, The Equinox and Reflections 2009. In 2008 she was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives and writes in New York City.

Ebb Tide

I tell myself that it’s for you

I gather up these stones, for you
this stripe of quartz, this green

like old glass bottles, but the truth is
we all walk the beach head down,

reaching for that salmon mottled
rock that’s not quite like the others,

even when the sign says not to—

that woman with the cell phone,
ankle deep in the receding tide,

who turns a stone around
and around in her other hand

as she says, “I was so sorry
to hear,” she won’t take that stone

back on the ferry as a gift; it will sit
in her pocket till she finds it in the dryer

next week, and puts it on the window
ledge or on her desk. It will always

smell like a disembodied voice, and sparkle
like that release, the water going out, and out.

- Susanna Lang’s collection, Even Now (2008), was published by The Backwaters Press. Her poems have appeared in such journals as New Letters, Green Mountains Review, Jubilat, and Inkwell, where she won the 2009 competition. She also won an Illinois Arts Council award for a poem published in The Spoon River Poetry Review.