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


by Elison Alcovendaz

Our frozen year-old cake sits in the freezer, wedged between Tater Tots and Hot Pockets. I stand cold in my unwrinkled tuxedo. Knees locked, arms hung straight, eyes forward. Asexually erect. A plastic smile on my face. She stands beside me, the colorless color of ice. Waxen cleavage. Prego-red lips. She caresses the bouquet of frost-tipped roses and lilies in her hands. Her face turns away, caught by the flirtatious grin of the Hungry Man. Her expression, expectant: ready for Dreyer's or Ben's or Jerry's creamy ejaculate.

Or whatever his name is.

Her wedding dress stretches to the size of a Foster Farms chicken. My zipper remains zipped. I try to drag her across the icing. Tip her over the edge and onto the Popsicles, where she can swallow all the sticks she wants. Our hands frozen together by vows. I snap off an icicle above. Stab downward, slicing my right arm at the elbow. At least she cannot accuse me of never having given of myself.

I push the freezer door open. Slide down the handle. Swing from magnet to magnet. When my feet hit the ground, I'm full flesh. I reach up, remove our cake, and when she asks me if I'm really going to eat our cake all by myself, without thinking, I say I do.

Photograph by Allyson Seconds

PHOTOGRAPH by Allyson Seconds


by Lance Calabrese

This day has found its stop
with too many hours left

so I sit the back steps
just beyond the groan
of a rusted hinge smoking
for something to do.

The yellow light of afternoon
has taken on its gray
and fire ants circle the outstretch
of my bare feet

closing in with every pass.
(The squeak of my split nerves
grows louder,
but I haven't the will
to resist,
or retreat.)

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