Spring 2017 Season

Work from the Spring 2017 Season of concīs

A Sharp Startle

Christopher Morgan

from “The Pink Lady”

distinct   the feeling
I could neither move nor speak

he was gone.

I had   fallen silent
as if
That night
had actually happened.

I stood out
bare

my experience,
a sharp   startle

he   terrified that
home.

My   experience   was
a sensation of being followed
at night

My
mother experienced this many times
It became   common for each of us

[view original erasure]

[haiku]

Karen George

pollen glasses dark
rust shimmers the universe
lies charcoal the nest

Leeches

Greg Lyons

A leech floats along a pond
like a man’s flaccid penis
who is enjoying a hot bath
and the sight of his member
poising. A leech, though,
has circular saw teeth, genetic
hardware for creating instant
glory holes. Its spit and mucus
slobbering—sticky and wispy
like Jell-O shots—seals out
any feeling as each frill
of its head distends and
ebbs. Gulp. Gulp.

Crickets

Greg Lyons

Through the window of a childhood
home, crickets filled the air with bubbles
that they plucked, stridulations. A rapid-fire
of vanishing rainbows popping
into chirplets. My grandma used to sing
 Good night, sleep tight
 don’t let the bed bugs bite
 if they do, promise
 to catch a few
 and we’ll cook ‘em up
 for the morning.
On a clear summer night, the wind keyed
across the trees, rolling the leaves
like a tambourine. Jingles falling over
dreams. Bubbles floating across the bath
of my eyes, cavitations. I was an audience. Why
wasn’t that enough?

Tuvan Lullaby

Sarah B. Puschmann

Because he can no longer sleep, Roy spends nights
seated against the fridge, which is the least of all
the strangeness that has bubbled up like swamp gas
since he lost his lover. He sees a spider with cinnamon
stick legs, two city workers shove the sun down a manhole,
and other such delusions. Besides rest, Roy just wants
to walk a bridge that doesn’t turn to dragon. He doesn’t mind
the Tuvans, though, three men in silk who huddle close
and sing from their throats. It is a comfort to have them near
when a radish becomes his lover’s eye and blinks.
At the Laundromat, Roy’s Tuvans rescue him
from a Mariachi serenade, blare tone over tone
under tone until the Mariachis stagger out, stunned.
And although it’s unlike a delusion to cook a stew
and wash the pots, that’s what his Tuvans do back
at what has become Roy’s apartment, his alone,
a sight stranger than the rest. At night the Tuvans lay
Roy down, sit on his bed and sing of horses or melt water
or sun, Roy doesn’t know the words or how to sleep
but the song is a hard bridge and his steps steady.

It All Depends

Brad Rose

Admiring the corporality of animals, we’re parked in the ghost car. I have an indoor question: How many misspelled thoughts must I have, anyway? There’s nothing more beautiful than wanting the impossible to be true, especially when it is. Time passes faster in the mountains, than it does by the sea. Like a drowned body, the sky’s blue prairie floats overhead. Wind light as confetti. Maybe we should take a drive to the beach; go for a swim? I don’t want to give away the ending, but I can tell you it’s a beauty. No one attends their own funeral. Know what I’m saying? By the way, that outfit looks good on you. Although, it all depends on how you look at it.

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