Julia Rose Lewis
You Were the Discoverer of the Wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant.
After Bianca Stone
Gamma is the Greek number three: you, me, and Dax (Lela, Tobin, Emony, Audrid, Torias, Joran, Curzon, Jadzia, and Ezri, the joined thrill.)
You run anomaly scans in operations at night to relax. I check you for ticks because you are extremely allergic to insect bites.
Your favorite drink is a Black Hole and your unrequited love was a physicist. The teacher, the explorer, the biologist, the fourth is not given.
Your mentor tried to steal the body of a shape-shifter decades after he washed you out of the program. Still, you miss the hoobishan baths at home.
You look good in blue. In vessels named for the earth’s rivers the Gander, Ganges, Mekong, Orinoco, Rio Grande, Rubicon, Shenandoah, Volga, Yangtzee Kiang, and Yukon.
You have inherited a love of steamed, not fried nor sauteed, azna from prior hosts. I dislike okra of all kinds.
You are attracted to aliens, farangi (a Persian word) and sleeping in the skins of animals slaughtered on a alien world.
You commanded the defiant. Run you boat.
You are late; we schedule our time together in twenty-six hour days. Where do you see yourself in three-hundred years?
I would like to see some of my molecules and some of your molecules in the runabout Rio Grande. Watch the emissary and what you leave behind to understand you are loved.
Re: Water’s Monologue
This is the character of water wanting inside the tree where apples are happening; they are bathtub white now. Because the body is not only pipe, nor pump, I must worry about pollution. A cup of tea being a bathtub in miniature some bitterness, same the heat. Here I reside in Nantucket’s tap as great the glasses of water or lakes, a thinking cup its breaking point.
Of capricorns, Enki, and I besides the biologist likes the goats; they give their milk, the fish for dinner oven ready ocean. His voice across the Atlantic reading to me. I want to be an island of water inside the dry this horse a Sagittarius yes.
“Tell me a story…”
Thank you for taking me to the Moth last night. I do have money for you for my ticket. I’m sorry I forgot to give it to you.
Wil’s breaking project essay is as much a reflection of him as you as me. I am beginning to break old habits.
At the start of my life and at the start of the summer, I said no to you. I held you at a distance. How does a double negative mean differently than a yes? I think double negative implies change and counterfactuals. Not no, in silence’s stead.
I am afraid you will break my brain, the red and gray place in my head.
Holding Pattern is the name of a series of poems in my dissertation. They are old love poems (baltic isopods). I have been avoiding them this summer. They need revision, I know, but I was afraid of confronting old feelings. I have been avoiding the old man (object) of the poems as well. He is on island; we have been friends. After listening to you last night, I feel less afraid. Even braided and soldered sterling silver will unravel now and again.
I love how responsive you are to my writing. I love how responsive your body is to mine. I love that you said, “Descartes was wrong,” in bed.
“This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.”
Of Cats and Bathtubs
The flattest sentences I could find. Four and ten are fourteen. Four times ten is forty. The verb to be in poetry, the equals sign in mathematics, metaphor really, where is the mountain in the photograph? The leg of a horse can be a cliff face to a kitten, the thickness of a draft horse.
Be kind nightmare. There is nothing delicate about this old warmblood.
The flat test I created for you.
When I am with you, Mu is equivalent to Enki. Mu is forty. Enki is forty. Force the mouse to sing. This is the story of a cat named Mouse. First named Mu, his brother Pi died, and so his name changed. He was the mewling kitten. Now the muse singing.
The kitten that did not get killed.
Mu rhymes with new. Nu is the flow velocity. Nu is a variable in the Navier-Stokes equation for describing fluid behavior. Remember Enki is the god of water and semen. Where are the other verbs?
The floating rest here.
Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum (Margaret Atwood)
Nolite Polite Not lie No light (not quite black hole) Night life (magic)
Te (Tea) Thee The Thou
Carborundorum Car bore run door rum Cardboard and or um (some) Cared or under hum Carbon dear come home (soon)
From sand and water come castles. Here is calcium carbonate from scallop shells and silicon dioxide on the ground. Sand paper grinds you down, yes, and polishes. The shine and electrical properties of silicon carbide can be mistaken for diamond.
From sand and water come quicksand. You live with the grit of fallen sandcastles. The water will wash you for a time.
Bio: Julia Rose Lewis is a working towards her MFA at Kingston University London. She received her BA in Biology and Chemistry from Bryn Mawr College PA. Her scientific training has given her an appreciation for the judicious use of terminology, stories of evolution, and evolution of stories. She is interested in the role environment plays in love poems/love stories. Her chapbook manuscript is an attempt to answer the questions- Can you love a person as a place? and can you love a place as a person? She began her love affair with the Little Grey Lady in the Sea twenty-eight years ago. (She also owns a horse named Apollo’s Lady.) When not in school, she is living on Nantucket Island. She is a member of the Moors Poetry Collective of Nantucket.
Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia
One day it will be discovered. What will be found will be up for review. Nothing is gone for good. Nothing good is gone. Nothing gone is good. Good is gone. Gone is good. Good is nothing. Nothing is good.
It took all of every minute up until now to get here, to get to this. Life’s been spent (waiting). Even when it wasn’t thought of as such.
* * *
Woke up, looked both ways before crossing the street. What could that mean? Don’t say there’s anything which can be called a reason or purpose as such. Jesus Christ. Some people.
* * *
Reality has no walls which can’t be broken. Voices explore places eyes don’t consider. The world we inhabit is a geode. Something hides on the inside. But what nobody knows up until now is that there are many kinds of geodes. Those inwardly bejeweled and those which are secretly rotting behind stone faces.
* * *
There was no place to put trust in you but that’s where it went when all the other hiding spots were already in use. Besides we all need a safe spot we want to rely on. Room has a way of being made when one is willing to take it.
Hearts have space for more chambers. Throats can squeeze in another stanza. Lungs have vacancies. Ribs were built to expand.
But it’s much too much to ask for eyes when they’re already being consumed facing consequences. Yet, for the rest, there’s a whole body formed just for hiding this corpse.
And when you left this was carried away too. In death we are, we were, we will be joined.
Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of Robot, This Sentimental Education and Yawning on the Sands. More work by Garcia can be found at kjpgarcia.wordpress.com.
We sit watching each other. Adorning the silence of our unsaid words. A car whizzes past every few minutes, and then, it is just the whistle of the trees as they reiterate our emptiness. I feel drained. In the last few hours, we have learned so much about each other. Things no one else will ever understand. The brokenness of our souls now made whole again. Not regretting any of it. A sense of abandonment that can only be shared with a select few. The once-in-a-lifetime kind of people. Who walk into your life and turn it upside down, inside and out. Leaving no stone unturned.
This was our sixth meeting. Probably the last one before a period of hiatus. I loved talking to him. It made me feel better. I didn’t feel like a mess anymore. My rants were just that. I wasn’t being judged for being me. A word that is as elusive as cupping water in my palms. The silence never overwhelming. Just someone who sits by my side and patiently listens to all that I have to lay bare. Things that are embedded deep in my subconscious. Things I never wanted to visit again. Digging into the ugly face of forgotten scars that will perhaps never be forgiven…
Bio: Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer residing in India. Her work appears in over two dozen anthologies includinqg The Dance of the Peacock, Emanations IV, The Living Haiku Anthology, Family Matters, The Traversal of Lines, and Eastern Voices among others. Her poems, erasures, haiku & tanka have appeared in numerous print and online journals. She is also the founder and editor of the literary and arts journal, Sonic Boom.
A Brief History of Meat
There is no name for the piece that the butcher prefers. It survives as something closer to need, the entire business of eating another animal swooping out of the human chest like a great, featherless bird. No layers. Nothing joined. Teeth no different from any other elemental tool. It seems to belong within this row of little shacks that has housed us since the war. It has been skillfully cubed to fit, but can never be completely removed from the bone.