Volume 1, Issue 1

Burnt District Winter 2012: Volume 1, Issue 1

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Featuring work from Vikas Menon, Paul Hostovsky, Joanna Pearson, Adrian S. Potter, Nate Pritts, Carine Topal, William Trowbridge, Matt Mason, Becca Barniskis, Natasha Kessler, Alex Lemon, Michael Hurley, Sheila Black, Jim Peterson, Alex Stolis, Lori Brack, Kelly Fordon, Francesca Bell, Amy Hassinger, Benjamin Sutton, Natalia Treviño, Richard Robbins, Gary Dop, Natalie Young, Lindsey Anne Baker, Teri Grimm, Candace Black, Joseph Somoza, Marge Saiser, Ira Sukrungruang, Nancy Devine, Christopher Leibow, Benjamin Walker, John Stanizi, Allison Campbell, Erika L. Sànchez, Jane Rosenberg LaForge,Megan Gannon, James Henry Knippen, and Steven Langan

___

from DINNER TABLE (CONVERSATIONS AT THE)By James Henry Knippen

1.

when a tree sprang up inside the ear

I called it alder                  you said pineyou tell your coworkers of my interestin the songs ears sing when treesinside them die                 I’d like to havetime to gathercottonwood drifts to fill my pillowso distant screams of felled or fallen

trunks would echooff a softer fate                  as for now

my pillow brims with needles2.

we make believe a broken tongue

play our paper violins

as thunderstorms do windows

our eyes are ears in darkrooms filled

with paper chairs

where we can hear moths flutter

like teacups                       we make

believe they can hear us believe

and like to think them finicky

as wrens

but moths are not wrens

they have no beaks

our mouths feed wrens to one another

and taste exactly the same

____

Homing

By Lori Brack

I am standing in a room made

of lilacs. It is April and I

breathe white and lavender, my aunt’s

ruffled powder box.                                               I am held in a room of lilac.

In June the cherries are ripe and I have

picked the ones the birds have not

pecked, leaving only the tiny red fruit               The cherries are ripe and I

with the single black piercing.                             leave only the red ones.

I am falling into the September sky lying

flat beneath the swing’s rusty pendulum.         I fall into the sky and its touch scours me.

Its shade rakes me, rakes me.                             My address is flown.


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