c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


Milton P. Ehrlich

Don't get bent out of shape figuring out
who you were in your last life.
Slurp your alphabet soup of infinity.

You're not the only seraphim in town
who needs protection
from every soul-crushing poltergeist
haunting Time's House.

The weathered face of God's wife
smiles, inviting you to get on board
the Milky Way Ferris wheel
with Moses and Tutankhamen.

The only matter worth remembering
is the first time you made love, —
the elixir of bliss, when all the bluebirds
chirped resurrection.

TUT by Samantha Cox Colborn

TUT by Samantha Cox Colborn

by Robert Beveridge

We sat
at the packed bar,
traded shots
of Four Horsemen
as we waited
for the sunrise.
"Perfume," he said,
"was for mummies, back
in the day." He drank.
"The spices they used
to embalm mummies
had a pleasing scent.
Women imitated it,
and kings, to get closer
to their gods."

My turn, the mix
of peppermint, cinnamon,
and darker things,
swirled through the teeth,
on the journey
from throat
to bloodstream.

APOLLO by Brent Wiggans

APOLLO by Brent Wiggans

by Ann Wehrman

suddenly spring delicately riots
fragrance of new grass wafts on warm breeze, children swing
pit bull on leash runs grinning
catches Frisbee in her mouth, barks deep joy
sun warms skin hidden far too long
standing at the bus stop, I watch all this, as if in a dream
then I see her again, the squirrel that I'd first thought a rat, until she moved

I watched her for a quarter of an hour, days prior
as she squatted on a drainage gate in the parking lot
I assumed she was hunting worms, bugs, whatever climbed
to the iron skylight over that drain—
an easy catch, like ice fishing
she had even warned off a fellow squirrel that day
baring teeth and claw, guarding her solo spot

today, though, as I watch her crouch, motionless on the cold grate
her pose seems more like a vigil, perhaps for her mate
who might have slipped through the bars
fallen helplessly, irretrievably into foul darkness
leaving her unable to move, hoping against hope
for his ascent, the emergence
of his small, brown, fur-covered head

instead, in a cruel gender reversal of Orpheus' fate
she must ultimately accept, must move from the grate
even if her shell-shocked psyche leads her to a fatal mistake
vagrant's knife or passing car tearing her limb-from-limb
yes, she ventured below in her mind
chirping and clicking, probing dark water, slimy walls

perhaps the end of the sewer-river does, in fact
hold what she saw in that dream
during her lonely vigil on the grate—
rusted throne, the Lizard Queen, and at her side, the squirrel's mate
somehow still breathing, though spent
or perhaps that was just a dark dream engendered by loss
keeping her hesitant there

in today's pristine rebirth of spring
squirrel dame crouches, listens, yearns
guards the grate ferociously
her dark longing will never be satisfied
her fate awaits—to be torn, then set among the stars

1   |  2   |  3   |  4   |  5

home   |  Table of Contents   |  archive