by Craig Sipe

All of the Benny’s,
some 31 Home Stores
in three states,
closed at the end of last year.

And with them went
715 red-vested souls who knew
Where     Stuff     Was.

And while my humble mouse
can click and scratch
its virtual way through
a cyber hardware box,

When an actual
Finger points
to the actual widget
I need to carry on,

Well . . . that is
Sistine Retail
in my chapter and verse . . .

Trans-substantial deliverance,
to the checkout lane
with the perfect
bag of screws.

by Linda Buckmaster

Markings; Double-stitching
After a painting in Lesia Sochor’s “Garment” Series

Begin between the clavicles.  You know
the place; it’s marked.
Cast downward like a pendant
between the breasts
to thin skin over
breastbone
now healed.
Right here
the arc, arch of scar
before it turns down again.
And right here, the blue dot
tattoo stenciling the trail,
and another here.
Here.
And here.

Body
Bodice
Bosom
Breast

First, one hundred and four stitches,
a heart once cut open,
tiny crude dots —
dot and dash
darts
dividing line (now so old and worn).
Choose your path, pattern,
veer left looping
stitching over
thin skin of breastbone
now healed.
And years later, marked left breast,
its own stitching
veering left
looping off-track
a knot beneath the surface, they found,
beneath the skin
of breast,
bone now healed.

No one thing but layers
of story: epidermis, dermis, hypodermis.
A trail of tears
precise as surgery
incise incision
ragged root edges darted
below the clavicles.
Drop
down
like a pendant between
breasts
stitched through
one hundred
and
four
cuts, pokes, push through and pull.

No pattern.
They had no pattern,
an unmarked trail,
a heart with hole.
They imagine where breasts
will grow on this eleven-year-old skin
thin
as tissue paper
over breast bone, broken, opened,
now healed.  They’ll loop,
the lower loops stitched
like brassiere cups
rounded
custom-fitted
one side more generous than the other,
skin tissue-paper thin as dress pattern.

And fifty-two years later,
double-stitching.
the blue tattoos of radiation
over breastbone
over left breast now healed,
under arm here,
here, and
right here
a pattern, a trail of bodice   body   bosom   breast,
a stitched heart, a blue tattoo.
Now heal.

by Linda Buckmaster

Red Apologia
 After “Apologia,” a painting by Harold Grade

First, the mouth —
red.
Stretch red
wild red
both guns blazing red
upper lip, lower lip
snarl red
shadow red
shame red
mouth first red.
Some talk
some voice
some speech
some big mouth
twisted lip red
belch red
fart red
caught in the back seat red
stain on the couch red
bold-faced lie red
and even worse — the truth red.
Shout red
bitch red
face red
foot in the mouth red
mouth mouth mouth and
so bad I don’t give a goddamn red
I’m sorry

by Richard Taylor

What ruin is a random hand
across a remnant page, crumpled
in a comer of his writing shed floor?

The penman sent his gang, partial words
all angles to the page, pushing,
tumbling like children out the door,
and none of them a name.

You’ve only found him rowdy
in his heart’s weather and salt breath
tossed wet and tom with sea sound,
and furtive prayer.

He knew a name was just
a place to flee with the riddle of himself
close by his side until they danced
the curve of fingers
into words

cursive with self that comes
to those who now and then will start
alliterating with a glib unfinished wind,
answering its questions
not yet asked.

Being comes hungry, catches a man foot-sprung
and giddy, scribbles left behind
and safe no more.