Author: chantarellesnotebook

Kintsugi

Once on the reiki table,
a healer saw through me—
could see the patterns
an obtuse young girl
carries in her veins and skin.

Her soft hands on my shoulder—
the master whispered every
time your heart is broken—
it heals, becomes stronger.

In the end, I didn’t fear
the damage you caused.
Once I left, I finally let the gold dust
and lacquer fill the cracks, chips—
spaces. I mended myself.

I am still filled with life and beauty.

 

Cavoli Riscaldati

Once was not enough. Tell me how lonely you must be—
how your life unraveled beyond recognition that this
seemed like a good idea. They are a mold you invited
into your life; they will not shape-shift into daisies
bursting with color and freshness. You know this.

You must savor the facade they’ve created for now;
swallow it down with a latte, and brioche. Wear
matching outfits so that you can believe you are one—
a soul split in two. Why else would you give them
a second chance? There is comfort in the lies you whisper
to yourself before sleep. Make this repetitive mistake count.

This is a beacon, a warning. You like the easiness—
retreat when you are asked to grow.

 

Self-deception

She’d return every Mercury Retrograde,
unaware of how closely she tied herself
to the stars—how the constellations wrapped
themselves around her. She was shackled
—just like the rest of us.

I anticipated her arrival every time
the Swift Planet spun backwards
through the heavens. I tracked
her path across the sky—
plotted her patterns with pushpins.

She pretends she ignored his siren’s call—
how she couldn’t resist one more chance

to woo him, make him swoon with desire.
She acts like she didn’t show up unannounced,
undress and spread her thighs asking for one more time.

 

 

Scarf

Sure footed in a brown corduroy bomber jacket,
slouchy boots, and teal scarf—the curled ends
of her dirty blonde hair, bounced with each stride.

And yes, this was still her mask, her fancy dress.
Chin up, and bulldozed those in her way. You’d expect
her to be the mother friend, the problem solver—
let me give you a pep talk to take on the world.

But it was a facade, and sometimes when it slipped
I saw this beautiful, young woman—messy and unsure,
but who knew she loved the scene where Amelie melts
into a puddle—a girl who will giggle and hold your hand

as we ran down the streets at night trying to catch
the bus back to our flat. Other times, when she was worried
we might steal her shine—she would give a sly smirk
just before her verbal jab pierced between the ribs.

At twenty, I couldn’t hold a light in my palms and whisper
I see you, and your fear. There is light enough for all; let us
illuminate one another and mend each other’s wounds.

 

Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Pink Plastic House, Sledgehammer Lit, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, and Dear Reader. She has work forthcoming in ArLiJo, and The Bitchin’ Kitsch. Her second chapbook, “When Goddesses Wake,” was released in December, 2021 from Maverick Duck Press. Her first full-length collection, “Allison,” is forthcoming from Querencia Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris.

Signs Point To Yes

I used to make life choices, (mostly should
I run?) with a formidable shake
of a white plastic icosahedron
afloat in dark blue alcohol. They make
ten positive responses so Mattel
wanted me to flee, only five negatives,
non-committals respectfully. Held
in desperate meek fingers, black orb that gives
such positive advice is programmed
to affirm my childlike whims, reactive
temperament. Pleased to be who I am,
where I landed — if just to plastic, passive,
at least not to men I shudder to recall.
I ran away with my Magic 8-ball.

 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of many books of poetry including The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and a short story collection You Don’t Want This. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

Distance

I allowed you
to sail me over lake beds,
pull me up cliffs,
across broken bridges.
But I could not kiss you
with any trace of thunder,
even when the sun was
sinking into so many oceans.
You told me once
that there would never be
enough sky, but always,
always too many stars.
You wished you could
count them with your heart.
Love was the sacks
of luminous, worthless stones
you made me carry
up and down
blue mountains.

Previously published in Digital Americana, Fall 2012

Grown into the Atmosphere

You had grown into the atmosphere.

I felt your presence
in the invisible morning,
lilies sighing in heaps

on the kitchen table.

I peeled back the air
and blew breath into you,
like the fog that coats the sky in autumn.

Your eyes remained translucent.

Previously published in Belle Reve, March 2015

Now Lucid

What we took from each other
were not counterblows,
but inspiration and blue fire.

Diamonds line our memories
like sizzling constellations.

There will be no more of our
bareback alleyway love,
raw scars ripped open
on rippled shoulders,
mutiny in our mutuality.

We forge the illusions
of our idols, chant to gods
of earth, lust, lions, wars.

There are no more calamities
to weather our shivering nights,
no more bee stings to relish.

If we suffer at all,
we suffer in phantasms, chimeras,
paling next to statues.

If sedition ever spread
its incestuous seed
into the trenches
of our feral gardens,
our tatter would never
traverse the war.

Our malice melts history,
boasts itself in buoyant headlines
forged of burning gold.

We shallow our heartbeats
with gaudy show tunes
and campfire ghosts
from the embers
of childhood convolution.

We steady our heartbeats
with the whispers
of our grandmothers,
breathing endless farewells
through stubborn vintage phones.

Previously published in Zombie Logic Review, July 2017

Your Grandfather’s Cottage

This storybook depot
tells of tawdry baroque fires,
intangible bygones,
punch-drunk operas
embittered in brocade,
settled in sateen damask.

The texture of my shadow–
rawboned with jarring seams,
slavish in the shrieking embers–
rescinds itself in rare revolt.

A rococo relic trundle
imprisons passing passions
inside intricate poppies,
grape-thorned vines,
footboard ornament angels.

Lusty windows yawning,
renegade starlight makes
straight for our thunder,
for once believing everything.

Previously published in Neologism Poetry Journal, November 2017

Megan Denese Mealor echoes and erases in her native land of Jacksonville, Florida. A survivor of bipolar disorder, Megan often incorporates her kaleidoscopic emotions into her writing. Her poetry and short stories have been featured worldwide, most recently in Spillwords, Ginosko Literary Journal, The Stray Branch, and Eunoia Review. Nominated twice for the 2018 Pushcart Prize, Megan has authored two full-length poetry collections: Bipolar Lexicon (Unsolicited Press, 2018) and Blatherskite (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, 2019). Currently, Megan is studying English at the University of North Florida while caring for her autistic son and serving as a reader for several literary journals. She, her husband Tony, son Jesse, and three cats Trigger, Lulu, and Hobbes occupy a cavernous, yet cozy townhouse ornamented with ads for Victorian inventions.

kinder than the sun

insomnia broke me open one night,
and the moon beckoned me out;
so i walked out of the house
crept out like a well kept secret
fighting to be free—
made sure i didn’t creak any of the
stairs on my way in or out,
but i danced in the dew covered grass
to the song of the moon;
and she let the wind dance through
my hair as the crickets chirped
and a distant owl hooted—
years later a little red fox and i
would lock eyes beneath the moon,
and neither of us would let go;
both of us knowing there is magic in
the whisper of the moon—
a light that shines more kindly than the sun.

Linda M. Crate’s works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of ten published chapbooks, four full-lengths, and three micro-chaps. She has a novel, also, called Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Productions, June 2018).

Engulfed

You were a flood after a drought—
my soil had turned to sand. Your waters
surged through fields; my roots were brittle
—impossible not to be swept up in the torrent.

Many think parched ground can swallow
the deluge, welcome it like a lover—
but a few with oracle eyes see disaster
approaching, know the parts of land
that will be washed away.

 

armistice

I.

On Monday during the new moon,
I dreamt my home was a coral castle by the sea—
you had come seeking sanctuary. Refuge.
Your confidant told you I was a healer—g
She had been in need of a remedy months
before you arrived on my shores. How weary
you have been clawing your way through
the misty marshlands, and starving deserts.

I fed you an elixir made out of white daisies,
yellow rose petals and honey—wrapped
your lacerations in gauze, my canopy of herbs
and plants covered you like a shroud, a chrysalis.
I woke before your wounds fully healed.

II.

Full moon reality, another Monday:
we are asked to wash away—
release what no longer serves us, cleanse
our scars with fresh moon water—
anoint them so they shine like stars.

This is the final step in restoration:
say it out loud, how he damaged us both—
how looking back we can’t figure out
why we stayed so long, when his only goal
was destruction, a volcano’s lava consuming
everything in its path. Countless others,
became scorched and annihilated—
their words are lost on the wind, or buried
under molten rock—incidents better forgotten.

We must spill truth into teacups.
Let my words be the catalyst—
there is no other way to begin.

 

Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Better Than Starbucks Magazine, Fevers of the Mind, and Pink Plastic House. Marisa is the co-editor of the anthology “Kirstofia.” She has work forthcoming in Sledgehammer Lit Mag, Analogies and Allegories, and Rough Diamond. Her second chapbook When Goddesses Wake will be published later this year by Maverick Duck Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris. You can find more of her work at http://www.marisasilvadunbar.com