Contributed By: Steven Klepetar
You can tell
they are saying
goodbye
that distance has
already swallowed
them up, by the way
they linger on this
cold beach, bare feet
stung by the rag end
of waves. She is
weeping and he would
if he could. The wind
must sound lonely
to them and the hungry
gulls a provocation
about flesh and its
never-ending need
for salt and air and
those leaping, silver fish
exploding back into the sea.
Return to table of contents for Issue 3 Fall 2010
Issue 5 Spring 2012 ALYSE BENSEL is currently pursuing her MFA in poetry at Penn State. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Cider Press Review, The Summerset Review, and Foothill Poetry, among others. When not engaged in her teaching and studies, she volunteers for a cat rescue and participates in a work-share program at a local CSA farm. […]
An eddy, the titular inspiration for this show, is a flowing water phenomenon where the current is disrupted by inverse movement, causing a whirlpool. This exhibit of young emerging sculptors makes a similar gesture against a cultural current, long spiraling toward doom. M23 is a small gallery in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the […]
I don’t know what makes a country a country. If the sea softening an edge of land is enough to say, this is mine and that is yours. There were nights in Tripoli when there was room for us. When the sky pulled up the wings of gulls and we watched their bodies rise from […]
