The Anatomy Lesson

Thorax sounds military, or straight
out of Valhalla, the yawing lodge
of the war dead held up by broad
parentheses of ribs, elastic
arches of bone. The upper sternum,
manubrium, like an element
on the periodic table, can
join in old age to the gladiolus,
misleading flower. Ribs are true or
false according to their oblique and
offset angle, though they all have heads
and necks, and knobbed tuberosity.

Floating ribs point down like internal
fangs; eleventh and twelfth, they are not
visible in The Anatomy
Lesson of Dr. Deijman
, though
the cavity yawns and René Descartes
peers in to seek the seat of the soul.
Cogito. Valkyries bear only half
the dead to Valhalla; Freya takes
the rest to fight a never-ending
battle for life, childbearing, love. No
one saw my mother wounded in that

war. Think of a rib, jarred and shattered
thin and sharp, a snapped-off shard to stab
the lung. Think of dying because no
one can find a cut or bruise. Think
the ways we are hit on the inside.
What within us is true, according
to what angle? Cogitate on proof
that is not visible, like the soul.
Ergo my mother serves Freya from
a wide wooden bowl shaped like the shield
I could not carry her on. Sum.

Tanis MacDonald

Ponti

In Venice, more than four hundred bridges span the canali, water shimmering beneath them
like endless green tulle. You venture across the city, counting—this one stone, this one wrought
-iron, this one some combinazione. (There are always more, the further you walk.) You must
keep track or risk a strange alley nowhere you predict. Today your count is true. A final turn,
and you reach the Ponte di Rialto, on the border between San Polo and San Marco. You step out
onto a slip crowded with gondolas, trembling and chitinous, sleek like roaches. Your aim: to
photograph the wide, white bridge prophesied for ruin since 1591. A photographer—a real
one—commands you “Affrettate! Spostate! Spostate!” Nothing in Venice moves quickly. You
will hurry out of his way in a moment; the bride and groom must have their backdrop. You snap
your picture, wish “Buona fortuna!” to la sposa, her ruffled gown and veil destined to hem itself
with green this close to the waves. Sudden as a comet, she kisses you on both cheeks, whispers
Mille grazie.” Your shock is short-lived, unlike every structure here; you can’t help but think
you’ve built your own bridge, from wife to wife. You make your way to the entrance of the
seething Rialto, push through the press of bodies to the portico at its center. A flotilla bursts
forth below, tugboats and waterbuses, taxis and flats, emerging like newborns from anxious,
panting mothers. Your glance alights on the bride, still beaming for the camera. Is motherhood
to be her fate, the one bridge you could never cross?

JC Reilly

In the Lizzie Borden Opera

Lizzie goes crazy before she kills.
We watch her moods quick shifts
from dutiful to angry, each a new
idea bursting in her brain,
an epiphany making other facts
and feelings vanish for the moment.
The writer makes it clear our Lizzie
needs a man for some odd reason: jealous
grudge against Sister, father who never
will tolerate her speech, family
that prison her too long in childhood,
because she should have been a man,
or the good mother gone for good.
In opera it takes this much
to move a woman to make patricide.
Not so in life. On Evening News

we watch a face you claim
the saddest you have ever seen.
Certainly her brown hair hangs limp.
We don’t see polished anger or the flat
nothing I’ve seen in the men who kill.
Once more a battered wife has killed
her child. We are supposed to act
surprised; news presents trial as spectacle.
More than once a week, I feel like it,
like killing someone, usually you,
though it could be my mother, father,
the step-something-or-other. That’s in my
family deep, but I suspect, when you stand
waving ultimatums in my face
like pointed fingers, it’s the human part
we want so much to hide. Not a
new idea and some might claim mere rage.
I know it jumps out inevitable
as night, as shit, as rain, as worms.

Must Lizzie’s ax appear suddenly
in her hand? Does the gun have to rise
to your side? What makes anger,
a moment’s rage in the midst of love
turn toward death? In the Lizzie opera
we’re frightened to sympathy, seeing
she has nowhere to hide. I keep trying,
running the same old territory, to work
it out with words. On days like today
when I sit alone in the hot car, fled,
the words seem like the last solace to fail.
When I go back, I expect nothing. More
groans perhaps, your best choice somewhere
between silence, forgetting, and a grudge.

Laura Lee Washburn

Promise City by the Numbers

Within driving distance
of unincorporated Confidence,

located in the middle
of the bottom of the state,

this Iowa town has a population
a mere fraction of its cemetery:

112 according to the last
census, divided into 49

households and 29 families,
all but 0.9 of whom are the color

of the space between stanzas.
Not much happens in Promise.

Most work. Poverty is work, too.
So is marriage. Birth and death

are the same as everywhere else,
no more remarkable, no less

to grieve. Main Street runs
mundane through it all, offering

Main Street kinds of items:
coffee, supplements, floss

for your teeth. But today,
a church day, the wind is a sip

of sparkling lemonade from the south
at 6 miles per hour, the air a balmy
64 degrees and the humidity is more
like Miami at 93 percent. It’s clear

that spring has come on gopher feet
to the prairie, bringing the time

to restore the blended colors
of the mesic turf with the seeds

of black-eyed susan and smooth
blue aster. Invest in it. Revel.

For the next 90 days, attract
pollinators with blazing star

and showy goldenrod, bring back
independent bison to graze

like mailmen through all kinds
of weather, who will later tunnel

through 9 months of snow drifts
with the determined shovels

of their hooves to find ox-eye,
goat’s rue, and rattlesnake master,

who lead themselves to water
at deep-enough local ponds

that don’t freeze all the way down
to their muddy seats, and give

eco-tours to curious tourists
driving cross-country, allowing

the wealthy to hunt the herds
and feast on meat tasting

of sovereign natures and a place
living wildly up to its name.

Jen Karetnick

You Can’t Stop the Bees

My Great-aunt Gatha, in her mail-order,
polyester clothes, works in the garden,
without a hair out of place, sings alto in choir,
studies her Sunday school lesson, though she knows
more about the Bible’s verses, maps, history—
and the road to heaven— than anyone who graduated
from Seminary. She has sayings like, “You can’t stop

the bees from flying around your head, but you can
keep them from building a nest.” And she has all
these old stories, like the time her ma bought her
some new doodads called “knee-socks.” So modest,
she put them on and tried and tried to pull
them over her knees until she stretched

the elastic loose. Ma Alice was so mad she spanked
her! Aunt Gatha was the baby of the family,
not expected to live, they put her in a shoe box.
She came into the world weighing 14 pounds;
funny, seeing how slim and trim she is
now. Unable to have children, she determined
it to be God’s will, and refused to adopt. She had
her hands full tending Ma Alice, anyway, and feeding
Uncle Pete’s voracious appetite. His profession was

body repair at the Chevrolet place in town. After
he retired, he had a heart attack, and would
have lived, but a nurse unplugged him when she
insisted he get up and walk… not a good idea
after open heart surgery. He went into a coma
for a long time, while that incompetent
nurse continued to work on his floor! It sure put

a dent in Aunt Gatha’s Christian heart—
one Uncle Pete wasn’t there to smooth out…
I’m sure she has some pretty unchristian thoughts
fly daily around her head, threatening to build
a nest, but, bless her heart, she just keeps right on
shooing them away.

Wynne Huddleston

I’m gonna build you a house

with no walls
that don’t also double
as wings. This home
will cut through pollution and hail storms
and chart out secret courses with the bees
on your behalf.

I’m gonna build you a house and you can take it
whenever you get that urge to

go, just go

and take the roof with you. Invite your mama
and your sisters and your aunties and they grand babies
to live in it with you,

in the clouds. There will be enough room
for anyone you love
because you are the daughter of a daughter

who was always on the run
from no one in particular,
just her bones weren’t built
to stay put, a thing

hardwired in her
DNA, some cellular desire,

an echo
of an even greater migration
our kin made not so long ago
and maybe that’s how it got to be
so easy to bear, Section 8 slumlords
who picked up on the scent
of that exodus

racing through our blood.

That’s why
I’m gonna build you a house
and use my tears as bricks;
this house needs to be fire-proof

because right before you were born
the apartment burned down.

And when you were 11
the apartment burned down.

And when you were 13
your mother dreamt
ya’ll needed to move. That Saturday

you packed up everything you owed
and by Sunday, ya’ll were already gone. Come Monday
your classmates rushed over to tell you how sorry they were to learn

your house burned down,
it was all over the news.

That’s why,
I’m gonna build you a house
and no, it won’t be rooted in nothing
but these feathery memories.
For all I know

people who say
home is where the heart is
ain’t never met a heart like yours.

Your home has been in so many places
and I gladly receive them, inheritances that they are
but in this home

I am building,
let this contraption of my heart take you there
wherever there needs to be.

Sagirah Shahid

Demeter, Just After the Solstice

My story says that once my daughter leaves,
my heart was filled with grief and I was lost,

a wanderer, a hopeless mess of worry.
But let me tell you this – there’s something sweet

about the sound of silence, how it wafts
through the hallways of this empty house,

how I can hear my own thoughts and my breath,
the sound of winter rustling the dying

leaves outside my bedroom window. Today,
I was awoken by my body’s restful

satisfaction, not the blasting sound
of teenie-bopper music from her bedroom,

the constant rapping of her fingernails
on the keyboard, or her cellphone ringing

at the most ungodly hours. Today,
I didn’t stumble on the thousand pairs

of shoes she always sloughs off from her feet
and leaves wherever they may fall like petals.

Today, there was no wad of umber hair
nestled in the shower drain, but still

those strands remain between the carpet threads,
on her pillowcase and in my mind.

Today, I’m walking naked through the house,
just a towel wrapped around my hair.

I’ll drink a cup of coffee with no hurry –
what’s the rush? There’s nothing I can do

to bring her back, except to wait and let
the seasons have their way with both of us.

In March, she will return a different woman –
we’ll share a bottle of merlot and laugh

about the fleeting seasons, how to find
our pleasures as they thunder past us all.

Katherine Hoerth

Issue 4 Contributors

Karen Barton lives in a quarryman’s cottage – held together with ancient mud-and-hair mortar – in the heart of Wiltshire, UK, close to Stonehenge. She is currently studying a BA in the History of Art with Creative Writing at the Open University and her work can be found at Matryoshka Poetry, The Curly Mind, Thank You For Swallowing, Quatrain Fish and I Am Not A Silent Poet amongst other outlets. Her website is thepapercutpoet.blogspot.co.uk

Anna Cabe is a MFA candidate in fiction at Indiana University and the web editor of the Indiana Review. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Toast, Necessary Fiction, matchbook, Gingerbread House, Reservoir, Racialicious, and Cease, Cows, among others. She was a 2015 Kore Press Short Fiction Award semifinalist, a finalist for Midwestern Gothic’s Summer 2016 Flash Fiction Series, and a finalist for the 2015 Boulevard Short Fiction Contest for Emerging Writers. You can find Anna on Twitter @annablabs.

Jeannine Hall Gailey recently served as the second Poet Laureate of Redmond, Washington. She’s the author of five books of poetry: Becoming the Villainess, She Returns to the Floating World, Unexplained Fevers, The Robot Scientist’s Daughter, and Field Guide to the End of the World, coming from Moon City Press in fall 2016. Her work has been featured on NPR’s The Writer’s AlmanacVerse Daily, and in The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror. Her poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review and Prairie Schooner. Her web site is www.webbish6.com.

Jessica Goodfellow’s books are Mendeleev’s Mandala (2015) and The Insomniac’s Weather Report (2014). Her work has been featured in Best New PoetsVerse Daily, NPR’s The Writer’s Almanac, and Motionpoems. This summer she will be an artist-in-residence at Denali National Park and Preserve, where she will continue work on a manuscript about the death of her uncle as a mountain climber on Denali. Jessica lives and teaches in Japan.

Katherine Hoerth is the author of four poetry books, including Goddess Wears Cowboy Boots (Lamar University Literary Press, 2014) which won the Helen C. Smith Prize from the Texas Institute of Letters. Her work has also been included in journals such as Concho River Review, Tupelo Quarterly, and the Texas Poetry Calendar. She teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley and serves as poetry editor of Amarillo Bay and Devilfish Review. Her next collection, The Lost Chronicles of Slue Foot Sue, is forthcoming from Lamar University Literary Press in early 2017.

Wynne Huddleston is the author of From the Depths of Red Bluff, A Collection of Poems. Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Snapdragon Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, Danse Macabre, and Halfway Down the Stairs. She was selected as Mississippi Poetry Society’s 2014 Poet of the Year, and served as workshop leader for the Mid-South Poetry Festival in Memphis in 2011. Ms. Huddleston is a National Board Certified Teacher with a Master of Music Education degree. When not writing, she is teaching elementary music or playing with her grandchildren. For more info, please see http://wynnehuddleston.wordpress.com/.

Jessie Janeshek’s second full-length book of poems, The Shaky Phase, is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press. Her chapbooks are Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press, 2016), Rah-Rah Nostalgia, (dancing girl press, 2016), and Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming, 2017). Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010) is her first full-length collection. An Assistant Professor of English and the Director of Writing at Bethany College, she holds a Ph.D. from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville and an M.F.A. from Emerson College. She co-edited the literary anthology Outscape: Writings on Fences and Frontiers (KWG Press, 2008). Read more at jessiejaneshek.net.

Jen Karetnick is the author of three full-length poetry books, including American Sentencing (Winter Goose Publishing, May 2106) and The Treasures That Prevail (Whitepoint Press, September 2016), as well as four poetry chapbooks. Her work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Negative Capability, One, Painted Bride Quarterly, Prairie Schooner and Spillway. She works as the Creative Writing Director for Miami Arts Charter School; a freelance dining critic and lifestyle journalist; and a cookbook author, most recently of Mango (University Press of Florida, 2014).

Laura Lee Washburn is the Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State University in Kansas, and the author of This Good Warm Place: 10th Anniversary Expanded Edition (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Cavalier Literary Couture, Carolina Quarterly, Ninth Letter, The Sun, Red Rock Review, and Valparaiso Review. Born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, she has also lived and worked in Arizona and in Missouri. She is married to the writer Roland Sodowsky and is one of the founders and the Co-President of the Board of SEK Women Helping Women.

Tanis MacDonald is the author of three books of poetry, including Rue the Day (Turnstone Press). Recent poetry has appeared in Iron Horse Review, PRISM International, Canthius, Prairie Fire, Contemporary Verse 2, and Best Canadian Poetry 2015 (Tightrope Books). She lives in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

Jennifer Martelli’s debut poetry collection, The Uncanny Valley, was published in 2016. She is also the author of the chapbook, Apostrophe. Her poetry has appeared in Up the Staircase Quarterly, Vector Press, and Tar River Poetry. Her prose has appeared in Drunken Boat, The Green Mountains Review, and Gravel: A Literary Journal. Jennifer Martelli has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes and is the recipient of the Massachusetts Cultural Council Grant in Poetry. She is a book reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, as well as an associate editor for The Compassion Anthology. http://www.jennifermartelli.com

A. Non, artist, poet and member of a number of intersecting marginalized communities, acknowledges that naming – of ourselves, of others – remains an act of power and of longing. Most of the material world that shapes us survives content in its namelessness. Namelessness is not a tragedy, but a fact of identity solidified long before language arose on the planet or arises in a human being. The multiplicity of the unnamed, human or otherwise, have things to teach. By coming up under the skirts of language, art enables me to learn; learning is my chosen purpose. I am therefore A. Non.

Tricia Park is a concert violinist and the violin/viola professor at the University of Notre Dame. The recipient of an Avery Fisher Career Grant and a graduate of the Juilliard School, she has appeared in concert on five continents and is also Artistic Director of MusicIC, (www.musicic.org)  a chamber music festival based in Iowa City that explores the connection between music and literature. Her writing has appeared in Cleaver Magazine. To hear Tricia play, visit:  www.triciapark.com.

JC Reilly publishes across genres, and is the author of the poetry chapbook La Petite Mort (Finishing Line Press). She is the incoming managing editor of The Atlanta Review, and has work published or forthcoming from Donut Factory, Riding Light, Glassworks, the Citron Review, the Xavier Review, and Naugatuck River Review. Read her blog at jcreilly.com or tweet at her @aishatonu.

Alexis Rhone Fancher’s poem, “when I turned fourteen, my mother’s sister took me to lunch and said:” was chosen by Edward Hirsch for inclusion in The Best American Poetry of 2016. Find her poems in Rattle, The MacGuffin, Slipstream, Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles, Hobart, Chiron Review, Quaint, Fjords Review, Broadzine,Cleaver and elsewhere. She’s the author of How I Lost My Virginity To Michael Cohen, (Sybaritic Press, 2014) and State of Grace: The Joshua Elegies, (KYSO Flash Press, 2015). Since 2013 Alexis has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prizes and 4 Best of the Net Awards. www.alexisrhonefancher.com

Lois Roma-Deeley is the author of three collections of poetry: Rules of Hunger, northSight  and High Notes—a Paterson Poetry Prize Finalist. She has published in numerous anthologies including Villanelles (Pocket Poets Series) and Political Punch: Contemporary Poems on the Politics of Identity. Further, her work has been featured in numerous literary journals including, Spillway, The Transnational,  Windhover, Bellingham Review, Water~Stone, and many others. She is a recipient of an Arizona Commission on the Arts 2016 Artist Research & Development Grant. http://www.loisroma-deeley.com/

Renee Rossi’s first full length collection of poetry, TRIAGE, was published in 2016. She has published two poetry chapbooks, STILL LIFE, winner of the 2009 Gertrude Press Chapbook Prize in poetry, and THIRD WORLDS.  She is an Otolaryngologist and holds an MFA in Creative Writing.  A native of Detroit, she currently lives and teaches in Dallas.

Lynn Schmeidler’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous literary magazines including Barrow Street, Boston Review, Fence, Cider Press Review, The Pedestal Magazine, and New Delta Review. Her chapbook, Curiouser & Curiouser is available from Grayson Books.

Sagirah Shahid is a Minneapolis, Minnesota based writer. She is a 2015-2016 winner of the Loft Literary Center’s Mentor Series Award in poetry, Sagirah’s work has been published or is forthcoming in: The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Mizna, The Fem, Bluestem, For Harriet, Black Fox, Knockout Literary Magazine, Paper Darts, Switchback, and Qu Literary Journal.

Austyn Wohlers lives in Atlanta, where she is an undergraduate in the Creative Writing program at Emory University. “The Art of the Blues” is her first published story.            

Post Modern THOT : Natalie N. Caro

Alysssplit

Natalie N. Caro is a Bronx-born poet and the 2013 recipient of the Bronx Recognizes Its Own Award in Poetry. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Philosophy from Lehman College/CUNY and an MFA in Poetry from City College/CUNY where she was selected as one of the first recipients of the Creative Writing Fellowship. Sometimes, she swears that school saved her, but then she thinks about colonization of the mind and feels some type of way. Natalie likes to tweet at bars about teeth and trauma. Follow her and her scattered thoughts on twitter @scatteredstanza.


Who is your favorite female identifying written character and why?

I can’t pick one, and so my favorite renegades are Edna Pontellier, Jane Eyre, and Sula. There’s something about the way these women live their lives, a rawness to their experiences in context. They also have this deep connection to the earth. They feel every bit of the world in them, and perhaps it’s because they understand its language that they are so brazen.

What literary work by a female identifying writer had the most effect on you as a writer and/or person?

Nayyirah Waheed’s SALT has pretty much changed the way I view language and my own relationship to it as a reader coming out of the postcolonial condition. Her ability to pack so many ideas and images into a couple of lines of poetry is nothing short of brilliant. Her work is as rich and real as it comes.

How did your work/works in Alyss come about? 

Date-Rape emerged out of many discussions. A lot has been said about the under reporting of campus rapes and sexual violence against women, in general; the narrative is, unfortunately, often one-sided. Much of my reading on consent and duress has forced me to come to terms with the reality that young men can be raped too. The conversation, I felt, needed additional voices and perspectives.
What has been your greatest writing life moment so far?

My most memorable writing moment is being anthologized for the first time. I have two poems in the forthcoming Afro-Latino Anthology from the University of Houston Press. Many of the authors I find myself in the company of are pioneers and legends; it’s humbling, to say the least.
What is your favorite piece by another writer from Issue Deux and why? 

Making choices is difficult for me, and so I have two poems that stirred me: Almost Someone Coming Home by Alexandra Smyth & Baptism by Jamie Lyn Bruce. In the interest of full disclosure, I took workshops with these two powerhouses, and even then I was a huge fan of their work. They both arrest the reader with a strong sense of place; once they captivate you, they whisper something big and rippling in your heart.
What are you currently working on?

I’m working on getting my first chapbook published “Post Modern THOT,” It’s a collection of poetry that deals with trauma of being of being a woman caught in the Male Gaze, or something like that. In the meantime, I’m experimenting with my website/blog:     www.natalie-n-caro.com

Who/what is your favorite Alice/Alyss?

At the risk of sounding trite: Alice in Wonderland has always appealed to me—mostly, because her curiosity was always stronger than her apprehension.

Mary Cotton’s Premonition

“They say Jack the Ripper was England’s first serial killer, but that’s only because the others have been forgotten for a hundred years…These quieter killers were poor, migratory, humble. They fed their children poison. They were desperate…They were women.” – The Big Book of Female Killers: Mary Ann Cotton, the Arsenic Queen

Just my body swimming deep below my skin
and the splintered wood above my bed:

Husband Will went to sea. I dreamt
               that water swallowed him
                           brine preserved him
                                   and mermaids delivered him
blue and hollow, to my door.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed.
Here comes a candle to light you
               to oceans in my womb,

oceans in a hot cup a’tea. Husbands
for a ha’penny, a ladder made
               of little fingers
               and a larder full of coal.

My dreams are loud with wails and nappies.
My eyes are splintered buckets full of bile.
Choleric humour like arsenic. The past empty as sockets.

When I returned
ther wos no home for me.

I stood once by the ocean
and watched the unfettered grey waves break.
               Fevers break, and my neck breaks with them.

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head
until tiny graves give up their tiny dead.

– Elizabeth Theriot