by Christine De Luca

On seeing Munch’s The Scream

Palms cupped over ears, she lets out
an unholy screech; the heavens a
whirl of blood–red, the fiord ice–blue,
everything quivering. The brush
in Munch’s hand surely
trembled as he painted the girl
who was screaming, caught her
conundrums of existence,
matching them with his own
in swirling firebrands.

I wonder
did I scream that day
of the lightning storm?
A sudden wind shook the oats.
Dad sent us packing from the field

‘Run home!’ I was the little one
stumbling behind.

I’m hearing again Thor’s cymbals clash,
seeing the lightning as it flamed
before my eyes; no summer flickers
but cloven tongues; a Pentecost
I could have done without.
I doubt if any sound came out,
but fire is seared
on my memory.
I clapped my hands
over my ears,
shaped my mouth,
and held my breath as I dashed.

On seein Munch’s The Scream

Löfs owre lugs, shö lats oot
a unholy screech; da heevins a
birl o blöd–red, da fiord ice–blue,
aathin mirlin. Da brush
athin Munch’s haand shurley
trimmeled as he paintit da lass
at wis screamin, catcht her
conundrums o existence,
matchin dem wi his ain
in swirlin tengs o fire.

I winder
did I scream dat day
o da lichtnin storm?
A sudden wind reeseled da coarn.
Dad skoomed wis fae da yerd
‘Rin haem!’ I wis da peerie ting
stotterin ahint.

A’m hearin again Thor’s cymbals clash,
seein da lichtnin as hit flamed
afore mi een; nae simmer blinks
but cloven tongues; a Pentecost
1 coulda dön ithoot.
I doot nae soond cam oot,
but fire is seared
apö mi memory.
I clappit mi haands
owre mi lugs,
shapit mi mooth,
an hüld mi breath as I dashed.

by Christine De Luca

It’s another day
In the garden of the Sheltered houses
she slips into each contented nap.
She’s made the move from idyll
of secluded cottage; is at ease now
with quiet neighbours, an almost view.

She has planted flowers,
and a male and female holly
in the hope of berries.
She starts to wave to passers–by
with their bright jackets.

I’m remembering that stranger who,
bed–ridden and sleepless in a sanatorium,
kept a lookout for a carefree morning girl
who ran past her window, not to miss
the early shift of her summer job;

having pulled herself unwillingly
from the sweet hollow of sleep;
the older woman daily waving
to her own young healthy years,
smiling into the face of another day.

Hit’s anidder day

I da gairden o da Shaltered hooses
shö neebs aff, dovers owre at aese.
Shö’s med da möv fae her heeven,
her ain peerie nyook; is content noo
wi paeceful neebirs, a half–haertit view.

Shö’s plantit flooers,
an a male an female holly
i da hoop o berries.
Shö sterts ta wave ta passers–by
wi der bricht jackets.

A’m mindin on dat uncan wife dat,
bed–ridden an waakrife i da sanatorium,
keepit watch for a carefree moarnin lass
at ran bi her window, ta catch
da aerly shift o her simmer job;

shö’d pooed herself, laith,
fae da sweet slacky o sleep;
da aalder wife daily wavin
tae her ain young healty years,
smilin inta da face o anidder day.

by David Linebarger

Older now, few appointments.
Time beyond time, the sky.

The moon’s many colors,
Diana’s animals.
Seventeen hungry cats.

A four way stop,
fruit ripening, plucked.
DNA in your eyes, your hair.

On a street corner
centuries away,
a jade cicada
on a mannequin’s lips.

How inside each body
protected by glass
a fire alarm waits to be pulled.

How glass often breaks,
how someone might want
what anyone has.

by Judy Kaber

I don’t know why she comes. Eggs
already laid and yet, she keeps pulling
her heavy body over the dry rocks

to rest finally on the small flower bed
beside the garage door where I’ve struggled
to get anything to bloom. What does she weigh

when she chooses a spot to rest, to collect
the sun and let it seep into her blood? Can she
understand that there is no safety here?

I take pictures, consider reasons,
try to sort through the wet threads
of her thinking. Once alone, she responds

by stretching her neck around the corner, then
pulls in her head when she sees me staring.
I cannot see her chest heave, curved bones of ribs

stuck to her rigid shell. Instead she contracts her limbs,
humps her shoulders to exhale and no doubt
worries less than me about the future, her only need

to complete the cycle, to feed, to lay beneath the mud
while pockets in her cloaca and mouth give her air.

Lacking carapace, I feel fragile, bereft,
confined to this wooden gallery for safety,
yet longing to open like leaves beneath water.