Flying Island

The Ceremony Remains (For Erna Rosenfeld) by Hiromi Yoshida Bike-rush down the wrong South Adams Street dead- end to dead-end—grey October air heavy with mourning and rainstorm threat. “Is it rude to appear late for an occasion such as this?” I wondered as though each moment (I was not there) were yet another blow striking one final nail into her casket. Urgency and denial coexisted so impossibly—propelling me in all the wrong directions as though my heart were a broken compass unable to gauge the simplest way to the site of serene abjection (i.e. the Beth Shalom Gardens). Discarded funeral program pamphlets folded slightly askew with the damp of sad fingers; water for ritual handwash running sparkles; bowl of unknown Jewish ceremony implements folded carefully in dark blue linen; and the colossal casket in the designated oblong hallowed groundspace--clods of soil ritualistically scattered across its hidden surface, ...

Poisoned Soil by Joseph S. Pete In a black-and-white picture, Shadow-effect letters pop off the pristine fence line, Proudly declaring the plant “The Home of Anaconda White Lead” As though lead were as wholesome as oatmeal, As All-American as dogs and suds at a vintage drive-in. For decades, the factory smelted lead, Corroding lead, antimonial lead, Lead for paint, insecticides, who knows what else. Bug-killing chemicals seeped into that patch of soil in East Chicago, City of heavy industry and hopeful immigrants, Lakefront city of coiled steel and ship canals. After the factory inevitably shuttered, Having run its course, Someone somewhere at some point Decided to plop public housing on that salted swath of lead and arsenic. Somebody decided it was okay For kids to play in neurotoxin-ridden dirt. Then one day, Officials in button-down shirts and soft leather shoes Called a public meeting In a school auditorium where a few ...

Singular Plurality by Dan Carpenter When one learns one interests no one not even one’s loved ones one feels at once wonderment at having won at one for once with oneself About Dan Carpenter: “ I'm a freelance writer in Indianapolis who's published poems in Flying Island, Poetry East, Illuminations, Pearl, Xavier Review, Southern Indiana Review, Tipton Poetry Journal and other journals.” 

February Ice Storm by Doris Lynch        Eighty-four years ago, your first-- another century, another world. Horsecarts clattered over cobblestones, fruit & vegetable men yodeled to housewives, urging them to buy winter carrots and cabbages. On Allegheny Avenue flappers wove, their hair newly cropped, sequened dresses shining with sun. Scarfs, capped with fox faces, draped ivory necks. Another February--your birthday-- you lie cocooned in a hospital bed in Crystal River’s Emergency Room across from the twin-headed nuclear plant that buttresses the Gulf of Mexico while a phone call away, Indiana hail hisses and trucks disgorge salt onto Highway 45. There is no safety for any of us: not drivers skidding from tiger-stripe to bike lane, not doctors carefully scanning your MRI, not black lab sprawled, legs akimbo on glazed lawn beneath the lone cardinal seeking shelter in crystalline hedgerow. ...

A reasonable thing by Treh Dickerson the backyard is at ease I stand on the deck and smoke night clouds are white layered on dark blue, I tap the lid of the toy bin looking for rainwater to smash my cigar in I snuff it in the bonfire, drag its good length through ash until it unravels, bends sideways, I waste a thumbs weight of tobacco I hear crickets and the sharp echo of dogs set each other off Treh Dickerson: “After having completed my education and the acquiring of a second-rate degree in English I continue to write poetry, inspired mostly by anything that has to do with dutch mysticism in the 19th century around the cities and villages that comprised New England at that time, and black comedians (Chris Rock, Richard Pryor, etc). These poems are crass, reserved, usually follow a form and aim at the spiritual high of romantics. When they miss, they become honest, and when they hit they become sound-driven.        ...

For Luigi by Jennifer Shoup I clatter down the steep stairs from street level, pass Francis at the desk, wearing his hat that is NOT straw, round the corner into the studio to find John, spot lit by sun falling through the skylight. There is happiness here. In the way the music compels me to move- catch the accents, stretch the counts. In the epaulment and shading, the push and pull between earth and air, the elegance of the lifted and open heart. To dance, you said, put your hand on your heart and listen to the sound of your soul. The power of that sound scares me- leaves me open and exposed, lays me bare. But when I listen and dance, what is hectic inside calms, the noise and static recede. And I am joy and light and music. Never stop moving, you said. How could I? Moving is beauty and strength, a lifeline, the only way to survive. How could I, When you never did, and there is such happiness here? Jennifer Shoup: “I am a dancer and an...

Generalissimo by Ed Alley Generalissimo has arrived. At six feet four, he says more, he towers over all. He tromps the boards with a thump, stumps people with each breath he takes, he exhales a new reality. He sweeps into the Living Room, dressed in black, a huge hat on his golden head, swollen from secret overuse, his head breaks the band of his feather festooned hat, so big he has to remove it (the hat), when he enters the little white house. Gold fringed epaulets on each shoulder, stars of gold. Braided gold lines the closure of his coat. Over his heart, LOU embroidered on his name patch (Lord of the Universe too big for the space aloud). Gold everywhere, his teeth, seat, scepter, and cape. Size 14 boots adorn his pedal extremities, spurs jangle with every trounce. Minions deliver a desk the size of a continent into the office he appropriates. 75 golden telephones line the desk, each labeled “Urgent.” Cronies crow, take a seat near His Frumpyness, hands outstretched to receive...

Winter Meditation by Mary Redman Cross-legged on a cool rubber mat, I sit intent on clearing thoughts, pull breath in, begin to count ... Outside a flock of starlings scarcely colors the brown-gray morning. Their wings beat, hold them hovering over three spiky shrubs, denuded beyond the window. Unfazed by the cold metal shepherd’s crook and glass tube, four land on a feeder, half-filled with seed. A dozen more vie for a spot, their cries more shrieks than trills. I release my breath. Responding, they fly, and I pass through with them beguiled toward the flat sky. About Mary Redman: She is a retired high school English teacher who takes classes at the Indiana Writers Center. She works part time supervising student teachers for two universities. She volunteers at the Indianapolis Museum of Art and elsewhere in the community.

Editor's Note: Epiphany is Jan. 6 The Camels' Tale of the Epiphany by Michael Brockley In our dreams, we still race across deserts, stopping for water in Bedouin camps where ragamuffins scurry between our legs like impudent dogs. For months, we carried the instruments of astronomy. Telescopes, calipers, Balthazar's abacus. A shifting load of papyrus scrolls and gifts. During the trek, our riders cursed when clouds concealed the daystar. Sang a new algebra whenever the sky exulted with light. Caspar exhorted us with oaths. Melchior with his whip. In Bethlehem, our caravan dozed in the shadows cast by the glow around the infant. The bulls braced their humps against the stable walls. The cows rested near their calves. Our youngest calves nuzzed. Their hooves and knees unaccustomed to labor. Livestock lowed around the manger. The weary mother longed for the privacy to nurse her child. In the courtyard, men gathered to argue the hour of departure; their voices so shr...