Wednesday, February 28, 2007


by Jill Chan


We don't know

until it is
too late.


I didn't tell

to leave
nor to stay.


When you
were born,

there were
not enough stars.


I lost
your name

the letters.


Tire tracks
and the backs

of every
other lover.


To end
or to begin.



Dare I mention
the heart?

How we
feed it.



when you are

Jill Chan was born in Manila, Philippines. She migrated to New Zealand in 1994. Her first book of poetry, The Smell of Oranges (, was published by Earl of Seacliff Art Workshop in 2003. Her work has been published in MiPOesias, foam:e, Eclectica, Poetry New Zealand, Takahe, Brief, Trout, Deep South, JAAM and some other zines.

Thursday, February 22, 2007


"a large three-legged black dog"
by Doug

I lay my muzzle between
my paws on a cotton rug

& listen to 1:15 a.m.
wind shudder beneath

the clapboards as
it eases through

small unobvious gaps
under window sills

(I am a large & ugly, three-
legged dog who recently rolled
on an unidentifiable carcass
laying on the gravel near
the roadside)

It is during these a.m.
hours I fear myself

& do not care

of the responsibilities
owned--the people

who love me, or those
whom I love:

It's bullshit &

I am alone

Doug is a man with a large, unyielding smile who lives in or near Des Moines, Iowa, or at least in Iowa.

Saturday, February 17, 2007


by Iri Kaijanniemi-Kilpeläinen

The air is so cold
it cuts like a knife:

The trees are in pain.

The silent death
picks birds

like fruits

from the barren

broken eyes

on the snow.

Iri Kaijanniemi-Kilpeläinen, old enough, married enough: a Finn who gets high with music, literature & some people.

Saturday, February 10, 2007


"the heart is a stupid hunter"
by Ray Sweatman

He didn't mind so much the young
couples walking hand in hand in
the park. Nor the old ones
in Morrison's Cafeteria smiling
at one another as if time were
just another tune on a jukebox.
Nor the cats taking a break
to cuddle under the shade
of a parking garage. Nor even
the birds hanging their natural
electricity from happy morning
wires. Annoying as they were,
he tried not to take it personally.
But when the blackest of all
the flocks decided to form
the shape of a massive heart
in the sky, he turned back around
to get his shotgun. "Put your gun
away, silly," she said from the bench.
"It happens every day, but
you never see me."

Ray Sweatman has an MFA from Columbia University, teaches ESL, is co- poetry editor with PJ Nights at From East to West and is still waiting for one more person to buy his book Nothing lit can leave from, so he can afford to buy one for himself.

Saturday, February 03, 2007


"Sometimes I have these moments"
by Tammy F. Trendle

on a Sunday afternoon
watching my son play
in the park. A sidewalk curves
around a row of sleeping shops
made of crumbling brick.
I see myself

in the window of a quilt-making store.
Piles of quilts stacked in the corner,
unlit candles wrapped in cellophane.
My son giggles as he jumps
up and down the concrete steps.
I hesitate to tell him to be
careful. He is a boy, after all,
and there is nothing I can do

to stop him from falling
one day. The leaves
are restless at his feet.
The air is becoming colder
but not enough to make me
want to wear a jacket. Instead,
the chill from the breeze
awakens my skin, and for a moment
I swear I can feel the entire
history of the world, all of its beauty,
inside me.

Tammy F. Trendle resides in Atlanta, Georgia, and works as a litigation paralegal. Tammy enjoys running, yoga, Romero zombie films and has difficulty screwing lids back onto things (especially the cap on her car's gas tank and the jar of pretzels in the office break room). Her first chapbook, Interchangeable Goddesses, with fellow poet Pris Campbell, is now available from Rose of Sharon/3 Virgins Press at She also has a blog at