Tanya Korigan

Clothilde Assumes a Relationship with the Horizon Line

I dream of the sea where M. Mulready paints me try to hold the flow still in my hair secretly commune with viscosity, unity as the muscle groups in my body are not

hair weft and fingers warp twinning me to the waters kaleidoscopic bones wrist mute velvet nuzzles the palms of my feet belies my pain forced stillness my flesh cannot peak and fold soft as the terrain of shore

I have released my mind into canvas and the multiple representations of me: imply movement by the lay of my seized hand insinuate salt air with the tip of stalagmite hip but this is a game a sweet tale in sienna and umber while the true pace is the crooked foot of M. Mulready’s chair there this semi-circle of lightness between it and the floor brutal caress clawing a small space of innocent air

moment by moment the part of me that would frolic in sea-froth is likewise clutched weighty pose moment by moment I am its whetting stone

M’s brush dips sibilant into his jar I can smell the waves sharp rustle pain and the sea and me a cresting statue I am called here for death more than holiday washed into dust on the rocks

art will be all that will embody me dying in my soft-minded sea

Lynn Tait

Mike Venables

Raydel Castellanos

Wency Rosales

Jorge Alberto Pérez Hernández

Jose Henris Martinez

Lisa DiMenna

Missed Train

I overslept springing out of bed rubbing the sleep from my eyes I sprint out the door to catch this train the destination is my past I understand the urgency

If I could just go back it will all be ok this time I’m convinced I’ll make it I need to

Panting and out of breath I find myself on the platform trying to pry the doors open with my broken fingers the doors close

Panicked and frantic my teary eyes seek a way in ticket shaking in hand waving to the conductor Stop! I’m an injured animal bellowing

I look inside witness my happiest childhood memories I see my father’s loving face his eyes are serene he sits with the people we have loved and lost he shakes his head at me while I pound at the doors

Not today, sweetheart It’s not your turn yet

With his hands he forms a heart over his heart our symbol As the train starts moving I pound my fists on the door the train gains speed breaks away I am broken

I stagger back on the platform stunned frozen in this cruel present life watching my father’s image my memories getting smaller and smaller

Our past is beyond my reach