I’ve Changed My Mind

By Haley McShane

Sparkling makeup and a slim waist

Kisses him at the Mercedes door.

She tries to talk. AHEM!

His wrathful baritone severs her hushed words.

The tender midwife places a cool cloth on her forehead-

As he drinks Jameson at the nearby rundown bar.

Tired like a migrating robin as

It reaches the translucent waters of the South.

The pressure to be perfect

Dissolves the little resolve that remains.

“Every great dream begins with a dreamer.”

Harriet Tubman’s words dwell in her determined heart.

He wakes up to find

A freshly-written note signed

“I’ve changed my mind.”

---

Haley McShane is a writer living in Massachusetts. She writes poetry, short stories, and freelance articles. Haley writes for Kingston Living magazine, a local periodical about the town of Kingston, MA. She covers local businesses, news, and events in the community. Haley's work has also appeared in The Boston Globe, Best4Bunny magazine, and online publications. Between 2012-2014, she wrote for her college newspaper The Mainsheet at Cape Cod Community College. Haley is a dynamic writer, weaving expository and creative styles in her work.

Two Horizontal Lines

By Haley McShane

Two horizontal lines

Numbers on each side.

Woman and man

Of little money

and much-

Equal.

Souls from blistering Georgia heat

Unknown jungles of the Amazon

Lively European metropolis-

Balance.

Unkempt rags lugged through polluted water,

Greedy diamond pendants pepper palaces-

Levelled.

The world will wallow until

the drawbridge lowers at dusk.

---

Haley McShane is a writer living in Massachusetts. She writes poetry, short stories, and freelance articles. Haley writes for Kingston Living magazine, a local periodical about the town of Kingston, MA. She covers local businesses, news, and events in the community. Haley's work has also appeared in The Boston Globe, Best4Bunny magazine, and online publications. Between 2012-2014, she wrote for her college newspaper The Mainsheet at Cape Cod Community College. Haley is a dynamic writer, weaving expository and creative styles in her work.

I Said

By L.V. Senuta

It is good to be alive they said

But not if there is none to dread

A life worth living is one with flaws

They said it would be more than cause

Don’t be bossy they said to me

Nice girls are those who listen freely

Don’t fight for worthless battles

A small complaint is all that tattles

You have to know what makes you pretty

Or else you’ll finish gray and knitting

Without a husband and a fine son

You’ll die a widow, looked down on and done

How dare you speak up about what you think

Your voice is not at all worth the ink

Listen to the officials first

Then maybe you’ll be excused from your worst

Where is your makeup, you forgot to smile

That tank top is too short, but show what is while

You have good looks so show them off

Why are you difficult, just take it off!

You’re pretty smart for a girl, they say

Even for the monthly you’re acting okay

Am I supposed to be a weak little thing

Born and raised by nature’s own thing?

I am a woman, strong and brave

I have feelings I’m not afraid to save

Yes I’m a woman, with multiple thoughts

I’m not here to waddle with two coffee pots

Since when will they get that I am better

Born and raised on the same earth for one letter

“I” is my way, and I will make change

Some that those who “once said” can’t trade

With three hearts to love I present them all

One to love myself, for I always stand tall

The rest for others and the world I’ve lead

And I am more than a woman, I said

L.V. Senuta has been writing fiction and poetry since the age of twelve. She says “I am constantly working on new projects. I write short stories, long stories, numerous verses strung up into fabulous poetry, and my favorite genres of writing include sci-fi, fantasy, mystery, and realistic fiction. I hope that my creations can be an escape, a sanctuary, and an adventure all through my own words. I’m excited to bring my works into this magazine, and I hope you find it all as mellifluous as I do.”

Self-Portrait of the Poet, Looking at a Photo of Herself

By Sara Letourneau

Photo taken at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, September 2021

Look at my eyes

and how they sparkle like tumbled aventurine

behind my glasses. Everyone says my eyes

are the first thing they notice about me.

So did my boyfriend when we finally sat down

to talk about love. He still swears my irises

are the color of polished nickel.

I disagree, but I won’t deny that,

when in just the right light

and at just the right angle, they glow—

soft and steady, like the headlamps

we’ll both wear at the Lava Tunnel cave tour

in a few days. But right here, right now,

I’m at the airport, waiting with him

for our check-in desk to open,

glasses on and sweetly tilted

as I look at his camera,

dark brown hair half-up,

half falling out of the matching elastic;

one hand tugging down my magenta COVID mask

so I can smile for the photo (and for him),

the other curled around the small of my back

to reveal a peek of the opal promise ring

he gave me five months ago.

No pimples or chin hairs are visible,

the freckles on my cheeks too small to see

from this short distance,

but it’s clear from the heart-blush on my cheeks

and the vastness of my grin that I’m thinking

only about the upcoming trip

and not my perceived imperfections.

Behind me, the waiting area at Terminal E

is dim, the announcement screens and white numbers

at each closed desk blurred, almost impossible

to read, as the girl in the mint green shirt—

the girl who is me—

reflects all of the room’s light

like the snow I’ll see atop Snaefellsjökull in one week.

Or perhaps I’m not reflecting light

but emitting my own,

a beacon of my world and his,

using lenses made of intuition that flash a message—

Look at me, I am beautiful—

that I’m only now beginning to believe.

---

In the Bath

Here,

in the hotel bathtub,

I am resting

in water scented with

coconut shampoo

and arctic thyme bath salts,

rinsing myself

in solitude,

a river of reveling.

My boyfriend has already

washed my hair

and my body,

but that is not

why I feel

cleaner

and newborn.

Here,

in this bathtub,

I marvel at myself

for the first time as an adult.

Smooth, uncalloused feet

with toenails painted

the purple of orchids.

The thighs I’ve called

thick and flabby,

now weightless.

My stomach,

softly sloping,

a meadow of skin

inclining toward

the hills of my breasts.

Slender arms,

with hands that hold love

and fingers that give back.

Now they wave

from side to side

so that gentle tides

are slapping against porcelain,

splashing my face,

rippling, whispering.

Here,

in the bathtub,

I let my body rise

to the surface,

let my old fetal self

unfurl my limbs and neck

so my new eyes

and freshened mind

can see me as I glisten,

as I glow.

Here,

a dam I never knew

I had built

bursts inside,

and thoughts of

blemishes,

scars,

spidering veins

are swept out to sea

as I caress

this precious vessel

that carries me.

Sara Letourneau is a poet, freelance book editor, writing coach, and writing workshop instructor who lives in suburban Massachusetts. Her poetry has received first place in the Blue Institute’s 2020 Words on Water Contest and appeared in Mass Poetry’s Poem of the Moment and The Hard Work of Hope, Constellations, Soul-Lit, Amethyst Review, The Avocet, The Aurorean, Golden Walkman Magazine, Aromatica Poetica, and Muddy River Poetry Review, among others. When she’s not working or writing, she enjoys drinking tea, doing yoga, reading, cooking and baking, and going on adventures (including traveling) with her boyfriend. Her manuscript for her first full-length collection of poems is currently on submission. You can learn more about Sara at https://heartofthestoryeditorial.com/.

Sunday

By Karian Markos

as a kid I wished for conformity

my name sounds like another word—

what vultures call their breakfast

like Marion with a K

blaming my parents for their ignorance of English homophones is unfair

their thoughtful creativity conceived of this mishmash

for fear a Spanish rooster would awkwardly crow my real name

on the first day of kindergarten—

kikiriki and Kyriaki sound awfully similar

and so abrasive to small, third-generation German Irish ears

and quite the tongue twister for a teacher

the solution—

Karian kicks six kittens quick

Karian kicks six kittens quick

Karian kicks six kittens quick

rolls off the tongue

my Greek name means Sunday so I could have been a Sunny—

Sunny sells seashells by the seashore

Sunny sells seashells by the seashore

Sunny sells seashells by the seashore

just as easy and no animals were harmed

as a kid I wished for conformity

for sleepovers and dances with boys

for ham and cheese instead of taramosalata

for time outs instead of flying shoes

for the freedom my ancestors coveted

the weight of my family tree was placed square on my shoulders

its reputation was secured in a vault between my legs

pride bedded shame and my tangle of dual loyalties was born

two flags two homes two names

Karian Markos is a Greek American poet, fiction writer and nonprofit attorney living with her husband and three children in the western suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. Much of her poetry and short fiction explores issues relating to identity and mental health. She is currently working on her first novel, a dark fantasy fiction inspired by medieval Greece. She donates much of her professional time to charitable organizations that work with children. Her work has been published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Bombfire.

Mea Conley

From the Column

Just a Moment

Poetry

When I was a Bullfighter

When I was a bullfighter I

Waved my red cape

Back and forth like a

Rippling sun.

You were kicking up dust and

Hollering like mad.

I couldn’t stop you.

Dust coated your bones and

Etched out maps of sinew and

Left you afraid of -

What, exactly?

Ivory silence against egg shell white

Backdrops finds us

Neutral ground where we can

Finally talk,

Matador to

Craven beast.

But I sit across from an empty chair,

In a crowded restaurant.

Cigarette smoke hangs like dread,

And I realize maybe

I was never a bullfighter

After all.

Alissa Aronson

Just Her

Beautiful was her calling
Or so the whispers said
No one would ever compare to
All the voices that lay in her head
Her ups became her downs
Racing and ranting so
Problems turned into promises
Her thoughts stuck in a deep limbo
Pointed fingers often lingered
And her mind was slowly awoken
She played victim to the masses
Still brittle and slightly broken
Her mind was not her own
Damaged in so many ways
Her moon was filled with lasting nightmares Her happiness slowly drifting away
Excuses became a blame game
Painting her fears with Bipolar
Still she’d rise each dawn
Like a lonely little love song
Smiling all the while
Knowing this was simply just her

My name is Alissa Aronson and I am the youngest of two. I grew up in the city of Framingham Massachusetts, instilled with a love of the arts at an early age by my father, an artist. I vividly recall penning numerous short stories in elementary school, where my love of poetry began to take shape. I worked briefly as a freelance journalist and have continued writing short stories. Over the last few years, I dove head first into poetry and have never looked back. I am so happy to share my words with others.