Summer 2014

Chara Kramer

It starts slow, tempting;
warm air mixing between you two,
heating each other’s mouths.

Eyes flutter shut.

Lips, smooth and plump—fresh grapes in summer.
He gnaws on each grape.
Once or twice a twinge—he bites too hard,
but you play it off as a moan: he keeps going.
      Pulling at your lip,
             he draws you even closer.

            Slippery tongues battling, dancing, swirling
            around each other.
            Moist and supple, but coarse.

                      His tongue drives deep past your lips.
                      You can’t swallow.
                      Your jaw aches from the weight
                      of his pressure, his intensity.

                           Mouth on mouth violence:
                           Soak in as much moisture and soft lips as possible until
                      you finally sever
             the slightest bit.

      Your mouths, now barely touching,
      still graze tender, full lips,
      until his hot, heavy breath
forces your eyes open at last.

Peycho Kanev

*

The leaves on the branches are getting greener, inside them
quiet music sounds.
Into the empty sleeves of the shirts hanging on the wire,
time whistles.
The sky is a sketch of a blue canvas.

*

Sun’s notes dance in the fire of a major scale.
The stones breathe heavily. And the sky is getting heavier.
My personal “I” crumbles into billions of “Us”. Wheat bows
before the ground and falls asleep. There is no mystery.

*

Water falls upon the puddles. At some other place, which
we can’t see, the painter picks the brush. Brown decay. Dance
of the substances. There are tracks in the mud which remember
the oblivion. The dung beetle pushes and hides his own sun.

*

In each fireplace a small Prometheus is working hard.
Crystals lick the windows, the silence chew whiteness.
Through the keyholes into the hearts of the cats the big sleep
passes. Darkness. And there is nothing else.

I wake to instant nostalgia.  Coffee
and a biscuit do nothing to help

the situation.  Everything old
is new again, blah, blah, blah,

I think: maybe I am old.  I see
things in the stores that remind me

of my childhood.  I see my mother’s 
bowls, my grandmother’s green

glasses pressed into textures of grapes
clustered together like rumors.

I see, too, hints of a household
like none I’ve ever known: chrome

punch bowl shaped like a flying saucer, 
ruby glass ring hovering above

hopeful silver cups rimmed
in cobalt.  It was the atomic age, 

once.  It was a time of hosting
and shiny toasts with drinks

I’ve never heard of.  Sophistication
floating in the air like ice cubes.

Service like this has never come back
in style.  I can’t be nostalgic
about something I never had.

Brandy McKenzie