Weston Cutter is from Minnesota and is the author of Enough, All Black Everything, and You’d Be a Stranger, Too. His poem, “New Fit,” appears in Volume 4, Issue 1 of burntdistrict.
By Weston Cutter
Even weeds know better than
to let go. Some dull bird
sits in the branches of the dead
red oak, dumb roots
still cupping dirt as it sits like
on top of the stack
of dismantled branches we add to
after storms. Even the bird knows
to trill. Even singing knows to
break to make
way for facts.
Jessie Janeshek’s first book of poems is Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010). She co-edited the literary anthology Outscapes: Writings on Fences and Frontiers (KWG Press, 2008). Crime Scene 9, our poem of the week, can be found in Volume 2, Issue 2 of burntdistrict along with more of her work.
CRIME SCENE 9
By Jessie Janeshek
If Eddie did it
it was a pepperbox
phone hanging limp on wire
a cop-yellow coatrack
electric cigar and a piano
an escritoire decked
in memorial violets
Lillian Kwok’s work appears or is forthcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Salt Hill, NANO Fiction and other journals. She holds an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. More of her work can be found in Volume 3, Issue 2 of burntdistrict.
LE CARNAVAL DES ANIMAUX VII: AQUARIUM
By Lillian Kwok
You are not a river, it disappoints me. You are incapable of drowning me, flooding your shores, turning my skin blue. I can’t drink you from my two hands. For a while though, we were happy, swimming in the water, your hands in my hair, my legs around your waist. But now I’m on the rocks watching you swim, and I don’t care if you stay there underwater, if you never come up again.
Emma Lister is a winner of Foyle Young Poets 2013 and the National Trust’s first under-sixteens poetry competition in 2011. More of her work is forthcoming in The Blue Pencil Online. “Home is in the Wind” was originally published in Volume 3, Issue 1 of burntdistrict.
HOME IS IN THE WIND
By Emma Lister
I ask myself only this each greying morning:
are you pure yet? Usually the answer is:
it’s a no from me. But like they all say, before I get there
there’s no way I’m leaving.
Yet I’m not like those talent-show never-gos –
I don’t cry, just clench my jaw
and concentrate to disappear beneath
the fine coffee-mug ring of instant, true-fold grit
that circles daily further round this life.
That means nothing much but I’m going to try again.
I smoke and smoke and wash my hair in ash.
[Give me the valley of an actress’s beach hipbones,
the love of my grudging mother,
a white ward light I can vanish underneath.]
But the nights get more boring the less I sleep.
Under the moon it resolves itself to me:
I want to be feather-light. I’ve got
a lot of hope for this. Need to be crescent slight.