Flying Island

Bible Study by Tracy Mishkin Genesis begins with light, ends with a coffin in Egypt. Then another coffin floats on the Nile, an ark for a tiny, wailing refugee who will build another ark, a tent of meeting in the wilderness. As an old man, he will squint at the Promised Land from an eroded mountain, his sister and brother buried somewhere behind him. No one will mention his children. If he were granted a gravestone, it would say he argued with his god. The one who sends floods that rip coffins from the earth, bobbing past this ark in which we huddle together. Bio:  Tracy Mishkin is a call center veteran with a PhD and an MFA student in Creative Writing at Butler University. Her chapbook, I Almost Didn't Make It to McDonald's, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2014. Her second chapbook, The Night I Quit Flossing, is forthcoming from Five Oaks Press. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

The Guarding Zimbo Talking Blues ( He had one of those white-boy shot s.  Tommy Chong, speaking of Bob Dylan as a basketball  player) You’re on Bojangles , says Silas.  Hack him if he gets in the zone. The American Songbook dribbles to his right, favoring his melody hand. At the crossover he looks at the ball for a backbeat before bouncing it back to his shooting side. Hums something that might have been “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” I center my body between his hips and the basket. He grins the way he must have grinned each time he made love to one of those beautiful brunettes. Steps back and guns a set shot over my token defense. Twine. How do I body up the man who could Mr. Jones me during a time-out writing binge? On his team’s next possession he weaves into the key. The lane opening as if Baudelaire and Rimbaud had set NBA picks for his drive. At the goal the lucky wilbury stops, gathers his jump and kisses the orange off the sweet spot. His eyes glitter wit

42  by Dave Malone What Jackie knows We hope to know. And when Preacher Steps up to bat, The man decides On home. No fear In him we know About. Such is The stuff we cast Our heroes with. In palest nights, The widow grasps The lot of sand And diamond grass. The grace of speed, The running path, The numbered runs Of Brooklyn’s best— Always fleet Of foot during Triumphant theft. Bio: Dave Malone received his graduate degree in English from Indiana State in 1994. He later lived in the New Albany area. He no longer lives in Indiana, but he considers himself part Hoosier. His great (seventh) grandmother, Mary Coughman Bridgewater, was a doctor of medicine in the early 1800s and lived at the small village of Pigeon Roost with her family. Though she lost children at the conflict there in 1812, she survived.  

Two Variations                    —for Hazel, 1951-2011 1. Conjunto When I hear your name, Hazel, it is 1994, you and I knee-deep in the Colorado River in Austin, Texas, under the rock hollows at Barton Springs, both of us visitors who met at the library and don’t have swimsuits to take with us over lunchtime, under the July sun so rabid we can’t stand to eat. We talk and talk, your Australian accent telling of loneliness from one continent to the next, brown water billowing over our toes like a thousand sentences to be read and written. At evening, you drive us in your landlords’ Datsun to a cantina where we order tacos and beer, both the same temperature, because we are here for the conjunto music you have never heard before. The Mexican quartet knows everyone sitting at the patched tables except us, so the men in silver-seamed pants flourish their fingertips as they play through the favorites, listeners’ feet shifting on soiled hard

Ponderings by Bonita Cox Searle   Ghosts sleep in ponds And rise up in early morning To haunt geese. When fish think they are alone, They dance on the surface Of the pond. Herons make no noise When they catch fish Dancing. An unloved pond Chokes on algae And raises mosquitoes. A loved pond Feeds its guests And invites them back. Old man pond frogs Snore When they are awake. When living on a pond, Ducks and geese practice A separate But equal philosophy. Ponds are as moody as the sea. Autumn leaves fall To the pond’s surface To dance with fish. Muskrats sashay back And forth past Dancing fish on the pond. When a pond freezes, The fish stop dancing and Fall asleep. Herons eat elsewhere. A pond does not know It is a pond. Bio: Bonita Cox Searle lives in Noblesville, Ind.,where she writes poetry and short stories. She is working on a novel. Her work has appeared in the Polk Street Review

On the day we found out We surrounded you, A protective barrier like soldiers shielding their general. We hoped to keep you here with us, safe, But as I watched you digest the news, Alzheimer’s disease, I saw a battle of strength, anger, disbelief and shock Struggle within you.  But on your face was what I’ve always known, That you were the strong one, The rock that kept this circle of family viable. And so you continued to fight.  Now years later, You drift farther away from our shore. Your voice faint from where we stand on the shoreline. You are so far from us that We no longer distinguish the person you used to be From the person you are now, Drifting and bobbing on the water, A warrior’s death, waiting for only the torch. Your anchor no longer tethered to our ship. — by Rebecca Hill Bio: Rebecca Hill is a freelance writer who has published some poetry over her lifetime.

May 2 is Independent Bookstore Day. Used by Jared Carter Abandoned, on rough wooden shelves –           dusty, crowded – Volumes bereft, beside themselves,           almost shrouded. Here the gaunt castaways on view,           their faces blurred, Their jackets torn, their binding glue           half cracked, their words A mumble now. The old  Playboy s           are finger-worn; The back room, with its special toys,           still offers porn. Bio:  Jared Carter’s most recent book of poems is  Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems  (University of Nebraska Press). He lives in Indiana.