Angels Flight by Myles Boisen |
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RAPTURE
by Patricia Hickerson they lived in the west Bronx used to be called Bronk's Landing after an old Dutch farmer bordered the Hudson at Kingsbridge Peg was a downtown secretary Andy a teller at Guaranty Trust we took the IRT uptown to 224th St. it was Elevated up there brand-new brick buildings stretched upward we rushed along the uphill sidewalks Peg had a half day work that Saturday came home cleaned the apartment parquet floors and French doors at the foyer white porcelain bathroom a decanter of blue bath salts Andy made drinks Peg passed out, fell into bed Andy found her in the bedroom bawled her out… we've got guests! Peg cried we sat around in the living room, waited when she recovered she played the baby grand Pale Hands I Loved Beside the Shalimar where are you now? who lies beneath your spell? Andy pulled her from the bench, kissed her I was a kid. I sat on their bedroom floor I smelled Peg's Shalimar perfume I made up stories around their artifacts a small teakettle gone green on a hob a table-top tree with crystal leaves beyond their windows a maze of other walls and windows I heard the El train squeal and wheeze jolt to a stop move slow again groan and grunt Peg’s laugh rippled high pale hands of poetry played the piano again 
Holding On by Brenda Yamen * by Simon Perchik These holes limping closer to my arms and louder :cones teeming, the sky spreading out —everywhere at once, the seam takes hold while the seeds lay exhausted, fed by a light as if the sun somehow remembers that first touch, from nowhere still heating my blood and its own —I will dig go lame, each hole following and single file swelling till it explodes —the emptiness around the dead, step by step my feet already dark, helplessly pressed into a trackless, still coiling bone coming too close again around my cry and the others. |
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