Issue One: April 1 (Now Available!)
Issue Two: June 1
AWAKE
I wrote myself out of sleep.
Rather than rake
the pale lawn of my wrist
with hungry metal teeth
and watch the pain gush
into a wet crimson pool
at my feet,
I let my pen
do the bleeding
for me.
Rather than collapse
into the blur
of a downtown street
swallowed by rain,
I crawled inside
a spiral notebook’s
open ribs,
sucked life from
fat blue veins,
exposed
dizzy splendor
engraved
in bone.
My words
breathed --
-- in and out
for me
when I
could not find
a reason to.
My words
tied me to this world --
--for one more day
so I could learn
not to cut the thread
before I tightened
the knots of my story.
I wrote myself awake.
NOVA
Sirius, that playful pup, chases his wobbly tail
and knocks over Aquarius’ pitcher,
spilling moonlight into our bedroom.
We swim in the milk.
We are two Grecian statues galvanized
beneath a vanilla blanket.
Star mist hovers, tingles ours toes
as if we walk barefoot in May morning dew.
We are glow worms,
a pulsating blue-green chain.
We dangle from the ceiling’s barren neck.
Spirits slip out of silver suits,
peel open and touch wet wings.
We enter Po Tolo, the white phantom fox
who hides behind her brighter brother.
Her fire implodes behind our eyes. We burn
and fall, green fire rocks slice night’s curtain.
As we rest in the black hole’s heavy arms,
a blue lightning seed flickers in the dark.
REAL MOTHERS
Real mothers don’t give birth to us
plop us to the ground like round ripe plums
desert us in the blaze of a two o’clock sun
laugh as sparrows build huts with our dehydrated limbs.
Instead they grow inside our pores:
capillaries that weave our burial shrouds
cleanse our organs with iodine tears
purify us for resurrection.
Real mothers don’t kiss
our knees bloodied from tumbles into sidewalk cracks
hamburger toes devoured by hyperactive dogs
pinkies smashed in dresser drawers.
Instead they seal our hollow bones
with wood hands and gauze hearts
pluck the shriveled pits
toss them into the pyre and
Smile
because our wings burn
Their names
into the sky.
VIDEO GAMES
I. Beginnings
I remember Pong
black and white T.V. screen
brown shifting joystick
two long white paddles
little square ball
reminiscent of submarine pings
softball games observed from the bench
yardstick cracks across red split buttocks.
Mark’s trumpet spit in my ear
dad’s snores from the La-Z-Boy
mom’s lament for Lawrence Welk
Good night sweetheart, good night
no bubbles tonight
I’m playing Pong
it doesn’t pop or float away, it’s more
Fun
than the ancient Mayan art
of bloodletting.
II. Lessons
While Diane played Galaga,
I always played Ms. Pac Man
the only game in the Washington Square arcade
that I could survive
for more than 10½ seconds
sometimes getting as far
as Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man’s
first spontaneous kiss.
Diane always got the top score
her call letters screamed across the black screen
in glowing galactic green: ADIDAS
(you know what it means)
the gold tokens jingled
inside her skin tight Gloria Vanderbilts
begging for more action.
She kept track of her kills
in one of those flowery datebooks
that Hallmark stores give away:
a heart for misfires
a smiley face for detonations
a star for two fires in the hole.
Boy, was I jealous
but later understood
video games can rot your soul
especially when you’re only 15.
Karen lives in Indianapolis, Indiana. She’s a wife, mother, legal secretary, college student and writer. Her first love is poetry, but she also writes fiction for children and young adults and prose. She is a member of The RRRRs, an Indianapolis writing group, and The Writers’ Center of Indiana. Karen likes to read everything she can get her hands on, watch birds, cuddle with her cats and walk in the woods. She also enjoys playing the piano, harmonica, Djembe and Native American flute, and hopes to soon master the tin whistle. A few of her favorite writers are J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkein, Robert Bly and Mary Oliver. Karen is proud to be an In2Books Pen Pal. She is working toward a Bachelor’s Degree in English with a concentration in creative writing and a minor in psychology. After Karen achieves her B.A., she hopes to pursue an MFA in poetry. She wants to someday help people who suffer from mental illnesses, such as depression, heal themselves through the power of writing. Karen feels it’s important for such individuals to have a voice in the world and a creative outlet for their emotions. Karen’s first published poem was “The Witch’s Brew” in the Moorhead Elementary School Colonel when she was 9 years old. Her more recent poems have appeared in genesis, IUPUI’s literary/arts magazine.