April: Now More the May-rier!

cover of issue 128 with photo of person in pink dress holding upside-down doll's head planter of spring flowers. Head and legs of person holding planter are cropped out of frame.

Our one-hundred-twenty-eighth issue is in full bloom! Fall might be the spooky season, but spring is the season of jump scares. You’re ambling down the sidewalk on an overcast day, enjoying the room-temperature air and chanting the four items you plan to purchase at the co-op under your breath so you won’t forget them. Then, right between miso paste and vegan jerky, the smell of lilacs launches itself into your face like a purple panther. Reeling from the concussive blast of fragrance, you take a few stumbling steps toward the street, plunging into a puddle of violets where pollen-drunk bees bump chummily into your shins. Instead of Bernard Herrmann’s shrieking strings, you hear a merry quartet of robins in a nearby dogwood. “Gotcha again, you fuckin’ dunce!” they seem to chirp. 

It’s this element of surprise—the sudden appearance of an unexpected image that delights the senses—that ties the stories and poems of this issue together. I won’t spoil any of them here; the joy is in the discovery. (Pro tip: read these out loud if you can; this issue has exceptional sound and mouth feel.) Also, shout-out to the gorgeous cover art by Sasha Moroz!

Circus Baby

Melissa E. Jordan

Over the bassinet and out the window 
came bristly small things, then orangutans and giraffes, 
stomping primevally up the gravel driveway 
before scattering, 
fading into the cottonwoods.

I tried to joke about it most mornings.
“My brain’s gone all wrong,” I’d drawl, 
my palms pivoting on the windowsill.

But the last word dragged out, not comically, 
but a lunatic gong, 
wrooooooong
And I couldn’t stop peering through the screening brush.

One morning I heard an elephant’s strangled trumpet,
and the treetops begin to shimmer —
I heard the faint screams of humans.
I was awake, I was surely awake, 
but the sound came again, a monster’s cry.

Then a hot air balloon breached the closest mesa,
braying air and filling the sky,
glorious and grotesque:

How it was so suddenly there,
an assault of color and shriek.
Like that birthing room shock, the surreal trick —
a woman splits in two, then holds herself in her arms.

 

MELISSA E. JORDAN lives in Connecticut. Her recent poetry collection, Red Low Fog/Transcript (Animal Heart Press, 2022) is a hybrid of poetry and fiction. Her previous collection, Bain-Marie (Big Wonderful Press) was published in 2015. Jordan’s poems have appeared in The Cossack Review, The Dillydoun Review, Open: Journal of Art & Letters, Word Riot, Otis Nebula, Terrain, Off the Coast, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere. 

two haiku

Ruth Holzer

heavy traffic
edging past
a car on fire


behind me
the Garden State
Where did our love go?

 

RUTH HOLZER‘s poems have appeared in various journals and anthologies. Her recent chapbooks are “Home and Away” (dancing girl press) and “Living in Laconia” (Gyroscope Press). She grew up in New Jersey and now lives in Virginia; these haiku were written on trips back and forth, listening to the radio.