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


RIVER DOGS by Allyson Seconds border=

RIVER DOGS by Allyson Seconds

by Mark D. Bennion

You sat there for forty years
shoring up the driveway,
acting as a skiwampus
hopscotch board for our children.

The burning bush and strawberries remain
by the garage, the dirt forlorn
as a friend left behind.

Perhaps the decorative cabbages
next year will take on a similar hue,
staid blue on the first cool morning of fall.

You held out for a dog
only to be dumped before she ever arrived.
Some mornings you were our devotion—

bald monks placid and kneeling,
and at night from a distance you could be
mistaken for bowling balls

or pooling water. I trust somewhere
we'll find you again
perhaps in the eyes of an aged patient,
fixed in the bed of silence or prayer.

BARSKOON VALLEY KYRGYZSTAN by Baxter Jackson border=


by Timothy Pilgrim

Minerals, like you, can gouge others
softer than themselves. Topaz

scratches quartz, which gashes
gold, itself having no way

to scrape emeralds or garnets.
A mineral's color when crushed,

is called the streak, say green
for malachite. Diamonds

have a streak of white. Being hard,
at their will they cut a line

into everything, even jade.
To see really red streaks, jagged,

deep scars, take a closer look
at the bottom half of my heart.

CLIFF JUMP by Baxter Jackson border=

CLIFF JUMP by by Baxter Jackson

by Pat Andrus
"It is often forgotten that (dictionaries) are artificial
repositories, put together well after the languages they
define. The roots of language are irrational and of a
magical nature."

           —Jorge Luis Borges, Prologue to "El otro, el mismo."

Crawled up your spine last week.
Or was it last night?
The days between your face
and the archangel's mouth.
Oh again, I confuse angels with your breath,
when in a cloud, going across morning midst,
your falcon turns into an eagle.
But did I tell you?
I swam away yesterday,
to a sea stack's lip;
and In the two trees having still survived
on that naked piece of land, that almost pure rock,
rubies dropped from your breasts.
Oh, again a mistake of mornings,
trips, and that dream I carved
in a mountain south of the Equator's north home.
Yes, I bounce, I digress, I look fast
into a river's voice.

Here, though, the bubbling language
placed in tomorrow's sunrise,

I see now.
I see,
and make moons fly
and grace their image
uttered in your mouth.

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