Her Voice

Her Voice

Her Voice





Neal From is a recent graduate of Colorado College with a major in poetry. He has never been published and writes poems because he loves writing poems.

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Late Burial



the small sound of an old radio, some music, words I
don’t understand, a nostalgic howl with lots of brass
and acoustic guitar

the scene where the car is buried by snow, all the cars
are buried in snow, the road just a faint dent

the phone ringing, going to voice mail, the phone ringing
in someone’s jacket pocket, the jacket buried in a pile
of jackets at a party

the rip along your cheek, badly sewn, a scar like a series
of faint pale staples, it was a motorcycle, you say,
or a drunk ex, you don’t quite remember

the leather jacket hanging from a hook on a door,
the lining reeks armpit, vanilla perfume, sick cat,
the ripped inside pocket

the wind makes a small sound, rattles snow from beech
branches, the houses across the street suddenly veiled,
the man scraping with a shovel pauses and shakes off his hat





Christine Hamm is a PhD candidate in English Literature at Drew University. She won the MiPoesias First Annual Chapbook Competition with her manuscript, Children Having Trouble with Meat. Her poetry has been published in Orbis, Pebble Lake Review, Lodestar Quarterly, Poetry Midwest, Rattle, Dark Sky, and many others. She has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize, and she teaches English at CUNY. Echo Park, her third book of poems, came out from Blazevox this fall. Christine was a runner-up to the Poet Laureate of Queens.

The “Interaction”

Amount of stubble, girth, hygiene. Duration, intensity of emotion or impact,
height, incorrect tongue usage, wrong place, wrong position, wrong words, ugly
feet, a rash, a distracting mark, your muscles, too quiet, too loud, unreal,
unbelievable, demanding, too serious, we are not having what
we can conjure under batik sheets alone with false gems, the family jewels,
fake breakfast, no sleep, the hurting, the shower, plastic eyes, paper porno
turned dark, turned drunk, what happened, what’s next, what’s
this? like kitten skin, like sex in granite, sex with ingredients and healthy
sex, or immediately imagining your mother; Your mons Venus bruised or pons
electric saliva after whiskey you fell in love with me and I was antibiotic, a dormant
case of frustration & forcefulness. The patron saint of lobster, casual & wrapped
in fleece. Let’s only if explicit in dress (like a sexy platypus) what do you want;
want to; want to do with me? Didn’t exactly stop it, remained neutral
like the television, a station of crossed legs & stomach. so there was
the erect mirror, the cognac sunlight, the studio, the wind’s rape, the audience,
the parking, the discussion, the apologies, the money, the lake, the steering
wheel and an ashamed crisp production:
          the color-correction, false fade.





Lina ramona Vitkauskas has published four books of poetry: A Neon Tryst (Shearsman Books, 2013); Honey is a She (Plastique Press, 2012); The Range of Your Amazing Nothing (Ravenna Press, 2010); and Failed Star Spawns Planet/Star (dancing girl press, 2006). She was selected by Brenda Hillman for The Poetry Center of Chicago’s 2009 Juried Reading Award and has been published in/will be published in DIAGRAM, VLAK (Eds. Edmund Berrigan & Louis Armand); The Prague Literary Review; The Chicago Review; Another Chicago Magazine; and White Fungus (Taiwan), which is currently on display at MoMA.

The Obvious Ruin of Precious Metals

The most precious metals,

the most antiseptic swatter in cahoots with the aquarium of the body.

& it is you ascending,
you exhaling,
& you,
& you.

Through the red-winged
blackbird’s pupil, apples pluck
themselves like suns from branches,
some frosty with home-wrecking.

Her teakettle dreamt toppled,
garrulous fingers retrieving,
fondling, what is the procedure?

Have you received the official
affidavit signed by physics,
a pasty mirage of mayors
beyond the horizon?

Let’s lick the bowl,              let’s remain seated.





Lina ramona Vitkauskas has published four books of poetry: A Neon Tryst (Shearsman Books, 2013); Honey is a She (Plastique Press, 2012); The Range of Your Amazing Nothing (Ravenna Press, 2010); and Failed Star Spawns Planet/Star (dancing girl press, 2006). She was selected by Brenda Hillman for The Poetry Center of Chicago’s 2009 Juried Reading Award and has been published in/will be published in DIAGRAM, VLAK (Eds. Edmund Berrigan & Louis Armand); The Prague Literary Review; The Chicago Review; Another Chicago Magazine; and White Fungus (Taiwan), which is currently on display at MoMA.

Watching Megasnake




How did he come to Earth?
You need to get a weapon, dude.
The heart of the snake,
the megasnake
eats peoples’ heads
at the carnival.
He unsheaths a warrior sword,
1/10th the size
do not fear the large snake.
George Lopez versus megasnake.
Let’s cut him up from the inside.
Is it snake day yet?
You took a picture of him,
but did not rock it.
You ain’t got no family, dog.





Lina ramona Vitkauskas has published four books of poetry: A Neon Tryst (Shearsman Books, 2013); Honey is a She (Plastique Press, 2012); The Range of Your Amazing Nothing (Ravenna Press, 2010); and Failed Star Spawns Planet/Star (dancing girl press, 2006). She was selected by Brenda Hillman for The Poetry Center of Chicago’s 2009 Juried Reading Award and has been published in/will be published in DIAGRAM, VLAK (Eds. Edmund Berrigan & Louis Armand); The Prague Literary Review; The Chicago Review; Another Chicago Magazine; and White Fungus (Taiwan), which is currently on display at MoMA.

from [It] Incandescent

Amy Pence‘s second collection Armor, Amour was released by Ninebark Press in March. The first, The Decadent Lovely, was published by Main Street Rag in 2010, and she has a chapbook online at 2River Press. She’s also written non-fiction articles and profiles for The Writer’s Chronicle and Poets & Writers.



The Potent Core (page 1)

The Potent Core (page 1)





The Potent Core (page 2)

The Potent Core (page 2)





Your Gnome

Your Gnome





Not of Ourself

Not of Ourself





The Missing All

The Missing All

from The Shape Territory Takes

Andrea Rexilius
from THE SHAPE TERRITORY TAKES



          A girl rises out of the ground carrying roots in her mouth.

          I rise out of the ground carrying roots in my mouth.




          The way a city becomes a name I have mispronounced.

          Birds are here to share their bread with me. They see I am

          a fairy tale specter. As metal trees rise heavy on their

          roots, beneath me the pastoral hushes. I want to dig past

          legos and G.I. Joes into something more guttural. Nearly

          everyone will disapprove.




          The sky is dark. The sky is light. The sky is leaving.

          The hawks are flying. The hawks are soaring. The hawks

          are burning in the sun. The light is soothing. The light is

          suffering. The light turns dry in my throat. I am pivoting

          toward. I am carrying toward. I am whistling toward that

          old cottage in the woods. Dirt in the old country tells the

          truth of dirt. I put my ear to the Eastern European ground.

          A train is coming. A flask come undone at my belt. And

          the teeth. The yellow teeth. The brittle teeth. The teeth as

          roots of the murderous mouth.




          There are no roots. The ceiling is breeding with its gills

          tucked in like a bitter lung. It is peaceful in the electric

          blue light of air. Did you know large eggs in photographs

          are eyes? It is interesting to observe these eyes. They are

          mostly olive in color. Some animals are not real. Some

          squint up their eyes to weep. I know what the red one is

          thinking with its green eye and rudimental legs. He is

          sticking to his opinion. Organs of hearing correspond to

          other organs of hearing. Out of the pouch an egg, the first

          egg, the elliptical egg, the egg finds its way into spirit jar,

          the wonder-egg, the egg of a platypus, they laid eggs, they

          laid eggs to an even worse degree imagined, they laid eggs

          that were victim to human invasion, soft-shelled eggs,

          marsupial eggs, the playback of eggs as animals, as

          anatomical structures, fur eggs, pouch eggs, eggs of the

          gun, eggs of every female animal, the egg of a hollow tree

          in which it was hiding, the egg that had more teeth in its

          jaws than any other mammal, the egg that hatches to

          emergency without roots, the egg that hatches rooted to

          emerge.



          I saw ladies on the hill, the sound of buffalo humming

          buffalo dancing a buffalo dance.

          I know the grasses beneath their feet, the heave

          of breath through hot air.

          It is so 80s. Dying to be a friend to something

          four-legged. I wish I were a burr on some kind of hill.

          Where we ended up.

          A dog among the buffalo. A baby buffalo.

          You could never understand the deep, purple-blue storm

          among the buffalo. The lightning of the buffalo.



          Concealed by the shade of trees. Burning in the light of trees.

          History has not lived. It would have revealed on water flowing between.

          I will give it its arraignment. Its arrangement.

          History tastes me. I am incurable, human restlessness.

          Let me conceal. Let me eclipse. Let me revel in the still

          blue of its fabric. In the corridor of this.

          In the arms of this. Beside this. In the certainty of this heat.



          In the certainty of this heat I become water. I become one

          of those bathing women in museums. I bathe, pouring

          water on my hair. I have one foot in a basin. I have one

          hand on the wall. I have inspired many men to paint my

          hamstrings. It is amazing to be inside this body. To be

          seen for centuries, a naked, docile muse. Do you

          remember the time I poured blue paint on myself? I was

          naked then too. I pulled a scroll from the deep, rooted

          earth. I went underneath the grass to breathe as grass

          breathes.



Andrea Rexilius completed her Ph.D. in Literature and Writing at the University of Denver. She is co-editor of Marcel Press. She is the author of To Be Human Is to Be a Conversation (Rescue Press, 2011) and Half of What They Carried Flew Away (Letter Machine Editions, 2012).