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


by Paige Simkins

lazy Sunday red lover wait for me your body your blood night ray speaks to me
lay your time down as to bushes under a ledge as I lie down in still wait
your black hair I run through my fingers run deeper through the gate of your heart
our bodies lay in each other jazz on a note sung by blue surrounded by light
I see no dark visions as I look upon your sex I see you enter me on this evening
this moment written in the stars when starlight connected us though the universe
deepened us long ago made us sink when only our dark our bodies lay still
in each other our bodies do not ask time where it goes it is not gone

BLACK BUTTERFLY by Christopher Kildow Moon

BLACK BUTTERFLY by Christopher Kildow Moon

by Jonathan Shipley

When I look in your eyes, I die.
When I look in your eyes, I live.
How can a heart stop the instant
it starts? When I look in your
eyes, my life begins and ends.
Every single time.
They say — scientists — our
bodies are wholly new every
seven years — every cell in us
different. Scientists said that,
and Ben Folds, in that one song
you sing in the car that melts me.
I love you. I want you. I'm always
going to want you. Every beat
until there are no more beats.
When I look in your eyes, I turn
to ash. I turn into a great oak.
I turn into a flame. An ocean.
What do you see when you look
in my eyes? My world incinerates.
Blooms. Withers. Expands.
Each look I'm a Phoenix roaring
out of the ash and fire. Screaming
clean of myself. When I reach the
sky I freeze and fall back to earth.
Shattered. Mortal, like all.
The ends of stories that never end.
The universe — scientists say —
is always expanding. I'm just a star.
You're just a woman, aglow
in the firmament of grace.

PETAL PATH by Christian DeLaO

PETAL PATH by Christian DeLaO

by Jonathan Shipley

We are all Frankenstein's monster.
Seeking out love in the quiet spaces.
All of us knitted together,
scarred and whole, scared and cold,
seeking out love in the quiet spaces.
Each stitch a memory.
Each fused piece of us some other
person. Words they comforted us
with. Arms that enfolded us.
Hearts that beat for us and beat in us.
A quilt of flesh, patterned and
beautiful in the dark quiet spaces.
We're monsters. How do we not
see this in the light of day?
Whole beings, whole minded,
wholly perfect. We are these things,
regardless, as we go into the forest
looking for our one bride
we've already been made from.



by Jared Pearce

Both times it was over Tennyson's art.
You pointed out the form of the Lotus
Eaters, saying students couldn't discuss,
much less craft, the poem. Though not smart,

My eighty-two lines, you said, weren't bad,
if I'd cut the extra two lines. And then,
arguing the image of experience,
you didn't agree but nodded: Well, yes, but

I was a loose undergrad tracking down
meaning with the club of my tongue to secure
it until I could work a scalpel for reading

And emboldened by the grace you gave grudging.
I wonder still if I've lived up to your
hard sufferance? Am I even worth your frown?

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