Flying Island

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 3.29 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Edie Meade , Ken Honeywell , and David Garrison and creative nonfiction by Sarah Powley . Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers

Nocturne i. My son wanted all evening all evenings  in fall to sit with me on the porch. He wanted  a bubble bath wanted to make Uno cards  from scratch though I was so tired wanted  pistachio pudding without the nuts. Snakes  and ladders popcorn each unconsummated  kernel accounted for and time on the stove clock  the microwave clock daring to be different  squared. Then when it was time he wanted  to sit on the porch lay his head in my lap kick  pillows off the futon he broke. I don’t remember  what I wanted. I remember the weight of him  his head on my stomach a pregnancy’s ghost  and us rising and falling together like ship and sea. ii. 2:35 a.m. a young man screams in the street  plaintive enunciated “Ouch!” an icicle piercing  the top of my head. Ouchouch help help  Mom helphelp oh ouch oh MOM MOM Where is my son is the Buick out front did he make it  home has he been shot stabbed cupping his own intestines  did he not pay the wrong person has he done it himself  with

Things I Put Away This Week The little tile table that summers on the porch, chipped but still serviceable; and the black folding chairs, even the ancient foam cushions, so brittle you could snap them in half, should have replaced them years ago—all tied up and stowed for the season—and the jute rugs, hose, umbrella, tiki torches, maybe an hour’s work. T- shirts, towels, the book I finished and reshelved, never to open again. Coffee cups, glasses, plates, half a cheese pizza, the ukulele I fully intended to teach myself to play. The idea of flying to Iceland in April, of ever moving to Spain. And a leash and a collar, a blanket and a bowl. And a life I locked in my heart, chipped but still beating, still tethered, still and tethered, still. Ken Honeywell is a retired writer and ad agency owner, Butler University graduate, and long-time Indianapolis resident. He is on several nonprofit boards and hosts Radio Free Book Club on WQRT-LP. His favorite book is John Crowley's Engi

Homage to Titian after a poem by Antonio Colinas I have seen your shades of gold  wavering in candle light;  your greens in Mediterranean daybreak over plum trees; your ochers in cancerous walls corroded by salt;  your blacks in grasping vines laden with death; your reds in every tile of Venice  and on the nails in crucifixions. David Lee Garrison was named Ohio Poet of the Year in 2014. His most recent book is Light in the River (Dos Madres Press).

Familiar Change They’re right on time! I had been thinking the winter aconite would spring up late this year. We had low temperatures and significant snow just a few days ago. It was a fierce storm, but the melt came as quickly and as steadily as the snow itself, so the ground warmed and these welcome yellow promises of spring appeared on schedule.  Winter aconite are the first wildflowers in my garden, and they seem as eager as I for fresh air and sunshine. Members of the buttercup family, these cheery 6-petaled surprises grow low to the ground, protected by deep-lobed bracts that surround the flowers themselves. The whole plant—stem, bract, and flower—grows only three inches high. They don’t risk elevation for fear of freezing, I suppose. It’s still cold at night in February and March. I have emerged from my underground existence, too, and I went looking for spring on an unusually warm day last week. There’s a small bog in our town—it’s part of a city park—and the trails along the ed