Telling

Telling
By Hannah Trees

Tell me I’m a windmill.
Tell me that you know my design
and how nature was meant to move me.
Tell me you know the words to say
so that I will turn exactly the way I’m supposed to.
Tell me that you can move me in the wind of your breath,
then prove it.
Speak the words that have been welling up inside your lungs
like storm clouds.
I am not afraid of your bad weather,
and that’s saying something,
because they could name hurricanes after you.
But instead I am calling every flower by your name
and kissing every petal that opened after your rains.
I am licking every rain drop off my skin
and I can taste you in all of them.

Tell me I’m a library.
Tell me that my soul is lined with Shakespeare.
Tell me that you want to check out all of my volumes
and read them in the dark under a sheet with a flashlight.
Tell me that when I breathe in my sleep
you hear pages rustling.
Tell me that you have walked between my bookshelves
and have found the back corner where I hide all the stories
that no one is allowed to read,
then read them.
Read me and speak my own words to me so that
I know that you know who I am.

Tell me who I am,
because some days I forget that I have memorized my own lines,
and I feel like a foreign country to myself,
and my fingerprints look like street maps
to cities that I have never visited.
But you have left footprints on all of my sidewalks,
so walk down my main street with me
and hold my hand and remind me of my self.
And when I remember the feeling of my own skin,
I’ll take you down my alleyways and past my city limits
and show you the creek in my backyard,
and we’ll catch minnows in plastic buckets with yellow handles
and whistle at barn swallows.

I’ll tell you I’m a cello.
I’ll tell you that you are making
every part of my being resonate
in swimming startime springlight music,
and I’ll tell you that if you bring a bow
and if your hands know what to do,
you can tune me by ear
and play me by heart.

Fortunes we’d like to see

Pomegranate

Pomegranate
By Adriana DiGennaro

A grayish quality behind the color: alone
this should tell you it’s wiser
than your need for nourishment.
A thing more compelling
than any fruit before or since, and yet
that hollow cracking sound
is not a delving into, but a wresting open
of the nest that would be undisturbed,
seeds scattering like nerves. And what’s this
bitter wall
rewards hide behind?
It’s humiliating to pick, dig, gather, try
to get as much as you can
as often as you can
but forced to go slow.
It doesn’t feed you,
does it?

Fortunes we’d like to see

E. Well’s Hole

E. Well’s Hole
By Jeff Barnes

Swimming through your sigh’s vernacular
I am heavy with breath, weighted and bobbing,
breaking ripples against sound till the fish come up for air
kissing for the sky and moon, lacing dander with
flecks of rust from swallowed barbs long forgotten
beside strange piercings stacked one atop the next with no recollection
of the bleeding worm, your words are flooded and rising
to the top of me, through me, only to be pulled back in
with another breath. A bloated pause. Before I go back under.

THE ALMOST BIG

THE ALMOST BIG
By: AD Caroselli

At the moment I was stoned slow machina,
all breaks & forgivings— too tumbling grounded in a see
all scenario when squeal, supposedly, gave way
to waggle. His eyes see through glass to glass
& my stare hankered a shame or recognition
hidden at the seat of reflection. Plussed piss-ant
firing his arms to steady her wheel, a soothe
not meant for me, a glare to burn iris into sheaf.

A gem

A gem

By Dan Alfred Nye

A gem
Her girl brain
A calm beam

I am born from mirage
Un guile me, girl
Bring me candor

I am a courier for her
Running
Facing her, burning amor

I, riled, long for her
Rich, our life be, once her, I
Engage again

Fortunes we’d like to see

Roro

Roro
By Jeff Barnes

I want you
with the cast dovetail in your mouth,
perfect teeth, chain and crooked nose
below black lashes and Ionic falls
to tell me something, anything
of interest. Because your beauty interests
me. Lacquered your words so I can see
myself reflecting in you, Thank you,
as you speak about whatever it is your saying
now. It’s all softening. There are a thousand yous;
fingers, blinking, from straight on to slightly off
center. Additions for the one you-image stored on the backs of
my eyelids, red and black and white add blue,
like battery operated rose petals or something equally used
to suggest my enduring fancy
struck: and I still have no clue what you’re saying,
but you’re smiling, which makes me smile
on the outside. This is all I need from you.
You are mine forever. You will exist in my
world as the thousand other yous do
doing what you always do. Softening.
A steppingstone kiosk leading to the next you
and the next you may very well be the way back to you.
Who knows.

Fortunes we’d like to see