Flying Island

The Supplication of Spring by Diane Lewis Let the grass grow; the blades burst into kelly and emerald. Let the crocuses pop; while purple and white dart in all directions. Let the dogwood and the cherry blossoms erupt; behold their eternally flowered canopy. Let the maples cast off their buds. Let the thunderstorms rise out of nowhere; the rain pummeling the ground. Let tulips emerge resilient despite winter frost and foraging animals. See how quickly and efficiently the weeds rebel; the hostas spike up from the ground. Let the clematis sprawl upward in search of something to cling to. Let the wind begin after a good rain necessary to bring forth the season. Let the days be warm and the nights cool; while sparrows feverishly scramble to build. Without the cold, harsh clutches of an angry winter, these triumphs of spring would never be. From the poet: “My name is Diane L. Lewis and I am the Arts Council of Indianapolis’ 2010 Robert D. Beckmann Emerging Arti...

If God Were a Black Girl by Diane Lewis If God were found to be a Black girl it would certainly explain a lot: how every summer   accurate as the timing of a Swiss watch   comes a storm the mystery of the aurora borealis the joy of seeing the world through the eyes of a child why a saxophone pressed to the lips of Coltrane   would evoke such deep emotion the color orange the Blues the leaping dance of flames how we know the sun is brilliant   though we cannot look at it directly the miracle of the clematis   in a forsaken garden; the morphology of butterflies; the covenant of rainbows About Diane Lewis : “I am the Arts Council of Indianapolis’ 2010 Robert D. Beckmann Emerging Artist Fellow. The Beckmann Fellowship has provided me the opportunity to develop as a writer, with the goal of producing a full-length book of poetry. Most recently I have been able to publish my work in Tall Grass Writer’s Guild Anthology 2013 and 2014, (Ou...

I Watched Him by Jennifer Hurley I am no source of honey or sweet but a swarm of domesticated honeybees buzz wintry-weak in my stomach, their fuzz bristly wire bottle brushes slowly scraping away cleaning what’s (left) inside. The emptiness overwhelms early in the day when the house is so quiet sun yellow warm I forget to crowd the halls with memories my son simply hiding, shadows. He had loved playing in the front yard pines lining the edge and he knew better at least I thought I taught him better but he ran into the street after a dry brown oak leaf bigger than my hand curling edges teased him along his fingers reaching out never taking hold. Alone I watched him from the living room window not even sure what I was doing so I’ll say drying a glass to prevent water spots not protesting because I didn’t know I didn’t know how far he would run or how unnaturally his body would hover legs splayed arms limp socks bloody. Italicized text from Sylvia Plath’s “T...