Issue 1.4
March 2023
Devon Brock
Winter Funerary with Prayer
Winter Funerary with Prayer
It took a backhoe to dig below the frostline,
into the clay above the bedrock, for us
to gather on the green welt cleared of snow,
for us, in our hemps and wools to lay
a body down, to return what was
never ours to own—
Our father—
As to the godless, faith briefly.
As to the faithful, black doubt.
J. A. Marcus
Street Fighters
Street Fighters
*For K.K.*
The six-button Street Fighter case
we used to mash at the town pizza spot,
the crimson seating, and its graying boss--
retired, evicted, razed. Before all shut
down, and before the final bout where Ken
and Ryu’s flame froze within 16-bit
unscrolling vistas of maritime moon-
lit docks and paper lamps, we trained to store
their brilliant searing blue and red dragon
attacks as our reflex. In August’s air
we broke for college without looking back,
leaving those rivals to a repertoire
that now I yearn to save from fading into black.
What of our teenage glory days? What hell
it was to be a nobody, no luck
with bad girls, fast cars, rock bands, or baseball--
never any quarter but plenty dime,
always a step short on the hero’s trail,
lacking dad’s praise, cursed with idle time;
no kingdom’s quest awaited us as men
but the loss of dancing within a game.
Mark J. Mitchell
Entry Rondo à la Hotel Krupa
Entry Rondo à la Hotel Krupa
No drums allowed, a sign reads. The street door
opens on white and scuffed black tiles. A floor
piano and guest get lost in ghost tunes
left in Hotel Krupa. Voices might croon
old Crosby songs. No one calls out for more.
The entrance clicks closed. You’ve lived here before.
You’ll be back. Gold-toned boxes waiting for
mail behind broken locks. Check out time’s noon.
No drums
allowed. Hotel Krupa keeps time—two fours
to the bar. Six or nine beats. Rhythm’s lore
runs wild in this foyer, covering wounds
old players wear. It should get torn down soon
but won’t fall. Not many rules, but one more
sign: No drums.