by G. H. Smith

Four in the morning,
refuge of moths,
moonlight’s underbelly of mist.
The woods are a misery of mud and stones,
discarded books, broken spines weeping.

You choose a rabbit’s path through the hedgerow,
mumbling incantations of erasure,
the way children who wish to remain lost
gather breadcrumbs, smooth over
the Braille of disturbed leaves.

A screen door slams once, then again.
At last the dead are sleeping.
You ask yourself what kind of mantra
stitches itself from discarded wings,
perpetually darkened chambers of the heart?

On the heels of an unfathomable dream,
you forget more than you intended,
the name, for example,
of the house on the hill
where no one, nothing awaits your return.

by G. H. Smith

A darkness lies within us,
which is the driving force of the world.

It is darker than the hour before dawn,
yet without it, there would be no light.

It brings us to the brink of destruction,
yet we dare not oppose it.

It knows our thoughts,
and can easily outwit us.

It must, but cannot be contained.

To make peace with it,
you must bare your heart,

rebel and surrender in the same breath,
be both appalled and awed.

Remember it is yourself from whom
you must first seek salvation,

your cowering and exalted self,
eternally divided and unresolved.

by Kathleen Balma

Under what conditions should one admit wrongdoing?
Is confessing in a dream as good as in a booth?
Who goes first?
Are there age restrictions?
Do the dead get a shot?

Who runs the project and for how long?
Will it be necessary to make a reservation or appointment,
or is it first come first serve?
Is there a suggestion box?  A gift registry?
Will I need a witness?

When the apology part is over,
should all spilled secrets be tagged and catalogued?
Accidents, sins, mistakes, peccadilloes . . .
who decides what’s what?
Do records remain sealed?

Do poems count as admissions of guilt?  Do paintings?
If so, do they have to be narrative?
Are confessional poems by victims filed under Allegations during
pax audits and
quarrel inventories?
Is the Forgiveness Librarian discrete?
Is she happy?

After the project, will a pardon be a privilege, a rite of passage, or both?
Is there a prize for the best entry?
Do animals participate?  Do plants?
Will there be a new holiday to mark the end of resentment?
Will there be an “I Forgave Today” sticker at the exit?

by Kathleen Balma

If you will not tip me for my dance, tip me for daring to ask. Or if, having stared at me directly for the duration of a song or two, you still did not manage to see me, as you claim, then tip me for what you see now: the perfect circumference of twin areole, one torso a la Aphrodite statue, one triangle of cloth bundling The Origin of the World and pointing like an arrow to the masculine earth. Do you doubt that the artist tipped his model? Ah, but you’re right: there is that old understanding between painters and nudes. Tit for dab, so to speak. Similarly, artists and restaurateurs have sometimes exchanged a mouthful for an eye feast. (Dab for tidbit; slapdash for tiddlywink.) Tip me, then, in calories; offer me a slice of lime split wide over the edge of a beverage. Tip me for staring back so hard it puts even Olympia to shame and makes her chat noire slink ever closer to her overlooked and under-rendered black maid. Tip me, at least, for carrying so many geometrician’s tools: the circle, the triangle, the rectangular bills tucked beneath such finite and measurable bikini lines. Tip me for my burlesque, crescent-shaped ass. Tip me for what you don’t see: the abstract; the invisible; the squiggly outline of the model’s brain matter in silhouette; the negative space plastered between fleshy objects like some happy vacuum, giving form to the nothingness between us.