ST. SEBASTIAN
      Emily Brink
      (The Melic Review)

When I was a little girl,
undressing, I always turned
the face of Jesus to the wall.
Hanging backwards, he was spared,
saved the sight of a girl’s
naked frame. It was like turning
off the lights in my body.

Today, on a date in the Renaissance
wing of the museum, under the gaze
of St. Sebastian’s marble statue,
I turn my face to the wall.

The arrows in his bloodless chest
are lead-tipped lady fingers.
I’m wearing a gold-lace bra
from Victoria’s Secret.

I regale Syed with many tales
from the secret lives of saints.
They say that St. Sebastian was the Emperor’s lover,
I tell him; that he brought more than
just bread and wine
to hungry Christians, men imprisoned
behind Roman walls.

I remember when Uncle Lee left
to have a sex change operation.
Auntie Kyla took all of his pictures down,
nailed up pictures of the saints
instead, but the walls mumbled
in shadows during the daytime
saying you can weep and play the blues
till’ the cock crows, but he ain’t
comin’ back here to roost, honey.

Truth told I am more than flight
to find myself facing
Syed as he looks into my eyes
whispering, zohar. Like a dream
by Al Hazen, I face the tender
tug in my pelvis, the blood
as it rushes
down, down
into my shining copper cup
of wine.

A SOMEWHAT INEXACT HISTORY OF FLOWERS
      Jim Zola
      (The Melic Review)

I could write how I’m amazed
at the yellow of spring’s first
daffodil. But that would be
too exact, untrue. In fact,
it’s just the first I notice,

looking up. It catches my eye,
the bud not yet fully open,
poking through a layer of dead
leaves. And I’m not amazed by it,
but more by the consistency

of things, the plodding renewals
of crabgrass, cockroach, dog droppings.
Of a yellow flower.
Younger, I might have stomped it,
angry at everything then.

But it would take sixteen steps
to reach the garden’s edge,
and sixteen back again.
My anger’s burrowed
deeper than a seed. Besides,

a neighbor now is out walking
his overweight dog
as he does every day,
and will continue to do
until one of them gives up.

We wave without speaking.
Muscles and brain, as if saying
– I see you, I don’t see you.

THE CALLIGRAPHER
      Kathryn Black
      (Blueline Poetry Forum)

I recline on pillows
in my small wooden boat;
a sharp tang of pipe smoke
wafts over dark water.
My wife stands in the bow,
watches fireworks
falling like flowers onto the bridge.

I will remember this night.
My brush will dredge thick ink;
in energetic strokes the words
will be painted on silk-threaded paper.

A WOMAN’S ROBES
BILLOW
AS A WATERFALL

My apprentice shall set my tribute
into a scroll which will hang
as a lone ornament.

There will be preparations for tea,
boiling of water, silence,
measurement of green powder,
whisk and raku cups.
One will hand the offering
to another, take small sips,
find peace in ritual.

MOON SHUDDERS
BEHIND
PINE BOUGHS

Under blankets my wife whispers, Yugiri.
I wind my arms around her delicate
form and put my cheek to hers.
You’re my beloved, I say,
you have given me my voice.

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