Lumen
by Susan H. Maurer
She had to kiss the floor they were so strict.
She once wore coif, grey wool, whalebone corset stays
cheap cotton slips, rough muslin, too.
Her mother knocked on the corset, “Knock, knock. Are you in there ?” Now she dresses for liturgy celebrated by a woman,
priests scarce. (Eucharist excepted.)
She changes her clothes for the liturgy.
“Jesus is my spouse,” she says.
(I was shocked, tried not to show it.)
Saw her later, neatly dressed.
She had changed, her blouse, embroidered, white.
Face flushed, luminous.
Riddle Poem
by Susan H. Maurer
The small black angels
light on the telephone wire.
Disappointingly, as they neither glitter
nor shine, though the starlings
tumble from the heavens.
Face to Face
by David Wagoner
At the outer corners of the eyes, the skin
has come to points like directional indicators,
and at the inner curves of the nose, two slashes
have put an end to the smile of a level mouth.
Above the brow, the five–line musical staff
has repeatedly repeated and repeated
itself from a slow start, only itself,
to close without a coda or even a note.
The single quotation mark above the bridge
says nothing will come before and nothing after.
In a mirror, it seems evident what didn’t
happen to what’s now looking back at it.
if this is all there is it better be enough
by Robert Roley
there’s the war it seems
it’s endless dreams
crouching before the fire
withered gray
in the crawlspace
of indigeny
rustic bells
dance
to neon flicker
shadow play
if it’s all the same to you . . .
but it never is
i’ve broken something
not a bone
or my favorite mug
it shows in the eyes
i think not mine
but yours
and the rain
it’s different now
not so wet
as i recall it
time was
i could picture the altar walrus
but what i write today
i can’t judge it anymore
there’s something
that needs to be said
but it doesn’t
speak my tongue