Poetry Showcase: 4 new poems by Michael Igoe

aerial view of green and yellow trees beside body of water during daytime

photo by Michael Bowman (unsplash)

By Chelsea Creek

Airborne jet of yellow          .                                                                                                                   over the Mystic River.                                                                                                                            Some ones seem carmine                                                                                                                                     the ones without any roar.                                                                                                                                                   Are they captives                                                                                                                                      of some lesser sun?                                                                                                                                            They’re in a song we sang                                                                                                                                when we were still young.                                                                                                                                                                 On a downtown landscape                                                                                                                                         sometimes a blue building                                                                                                                                   or an old crumbling tower.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    You're the defeated artist                                                                                                                                             who’s in search of a cure.                                                                                                                      I come to join recklessly                                                                                                                                                your cause at its junction.                                                                                                                      I don’t want to stumble                                                                                                                                   divided and conquered.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I seek your recognition                                                                                                                                                     as someone who pilfers                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     the coffers of Christians.

Thirst For Brown Water

There’s healthy sense                                                                                                                                                               in absence of intention.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         These surfaces                                                                                                                                             break quick time.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            This pool soon grows cold                                                                                                                               swimming within a frame                                                                                                                                       It’s seen in bad dreams                                                                                                                                but its contours altered                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       to mute heckling within.    

Midwinter Children

They tell their story,                                                                                                                                   of restless swallows.                                                                                                                                        In a random moment,                                                                                                                                   wearing rough haloes.                                                                                                                                    They felt oddly,                                                                                                                              about their gods.                                                                                                                                        Counting on the arrival     

Morning of the 27th                   

 Your shape tended                                                                                                                                           to render sameness                                                                                                                                        to all your moods                                                                                                                                                                                   all your darkness.                                                                                                                                      You made sure                                                                                                                                                                                        you spent time                                                                                                                                          putting me at ease.                                                                                                                                               In a few stars,                                                                                                                                            I  bear witness.                                                                                                                                  past the minaret,                                                                                                                                                            Those past the dome,                                                                                                                                  ones past the minaret.                                                                                                                                                    A satyr shadowed,                                                                                                                                                      one half is divine,                                                                                                                                              another half is                                                                                                                                                            odd among gods.                                                                                                                                    Gods worshipped                                                                                                                                                                           older, often naive,                                                                                                                                               rooted in rudeness.                                                                                                                                   

Bright ones remark,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    there's always a sky                                                                                                                                      playful each morning.                                                                                                                                                         Only one sky, but frozen,                                                                                                                                 issuing what came before                                                                                                                              to take liberty with virtue.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
                                                                                                   

Poetry Showcase: 4 poems by Marisa Silva-Dunbar

(c) Stephen Abbott drawing of Ava Gardner

Dear Ava Gardner,

I worry I will never be a woman like you. 
I have not mastered the breathy pitch nor 
The come hither drawl that slipped between
Your ruby shined lips

I am no femme fatale, 
no temptress in a slinky black dress. 
I wish the red lacquer stayed on my
nails, that I’d never bite them or scrape off
the polish. And I feel like such a child
when I see photos of you, only 20
perfectly put together, already
hourglass, dewy skin and bee-stung lips
deliciousness. 

But you were still more—dancing away the night
in Spain, seducing bullfighters with those
dangerous eyes. The smirk of a woman
who beat a self proclaimed chess master 
the first time you played a game. His ego
was so bruised he never played you again.

Cellophane and Dismay
              for Mel


I.

Early March—I felt like petals unfurled 
in my ventricles and atria. Bouquets 
of brightly colored flowers, burst 
through my chest. I am opening—
blossoming with purgation.
    
I welcomed you with offerings
of Olea europaea cradled near my waist. 
Come let’s shed a feud ruled by an empty man.

          		II.
Your best friend said I haunted your thoughts too 
during that Denver November. I was not alone 
on the qui vive—rivals for someone who didn’t
know how to love. To anyone who would ask—

he was your former paramour, both of you volatile 
elements exploding when you soaked your skin
in vodka and beer on lonely nights. But those moments
were long distance—I was a witness, lying next to him
when his phone would shine with your 5AM messages,
3AM calls—and these mushroomed into the pandemic
meadow of 2020, two years beyond the few months 
you said you were the black mold in the corner of the room. 

That facade is eternally fragile, and decaying.  

        		III.
I foolishly thought this would be more than a frigid peace—
that candor would flow like honey from the hive on late a June
or early July afternoon. That we could both be children
finding sagacity under the full Strawberry moon. 


Astral Influencer

I am the daughter of the messenger god;
the Moirai have sent me to untangle the threads 
in your hand. You like to stall when you must undo
the knots you create; fear a life without turmoil. 

You tell everyone you are chaos in a martini glass,
encourage them to watch you spill on asphalt,
on canvas, on your ex’s sweat covered dirty duvet. 
Pretend your drool is really his glittery cum—
your audience eagerly awaits the peep show. 

None of this is original; it rained starseeds 
into your mind. I tend to my garden nightly—
as they sprout in the soil of your dreams; 
even then some buds shrivel or rot. 

Now I am tasked with delivering your next idea
to your hotel room. I place the Eight of Wands
in your palm as you wait for your newest paramour 
to pour you champagne. Take the journey of 500
miles; design your life—watch the yarn unravel 
flow freely into yonder. This was always going to happen.

A Fresh Start

We drunk poison from the lips of those we love—
looked into the vast horizon at lives
that had only been mirages in the afternoon sun.

Let’s start a side business 
as fortune tellers for the end of the world.
We’ll read palms on the beach,
trapped in an eternal sunset,
the sky rose-gold—forever on fire. 

Lovers will still want to know 
what stars connect—if they are bound 
by the constellations or devoured by
black holes at the edge of the universe.

Watch the heavens melt like molten lava.
Hold my hand as we stand on the brink 
of the Autumn Apocalypse, waiting to be devoured. 


Bio: Marisa Silva-Dunbar's work has been published in Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Chantrelle's Notebook and Pink Plastic House. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology "Kirstofia." She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag, and The Daily Drunk Mag. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at www.marisasilvadunbar.com .

2nd bio: Marisa is a Latina poet from the Southwest.  Receiving an M.A. in Poetry from the University of East Anglia.  Marisa also has work published in IceFloe Press, Mineral Lit Mag, Rising Phoenix Review, and Ghost Heart Lit.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Marisa Silva-Dunbar






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