“Sanctuary” by Suzanne Stryk 2007.
(See also “Christmas Lights” by Wanda Deglane.)

A year ago, the Christmas cactus
sashayed in with its pink and
white party hat crowning the long
stems like ecstatic shrimp.

When the blossoms fell off,
each with its soft pink pod,
how bereft the stems looked,
jammed so closely they must be
strangling one another at the roots.

Removed to the patio in May
for repotting, my cactus rested
through October untouched
except by wind and sun,
mostly green, but barren,

surely dead—like some fake plant
pre-tinted with indelible dye.
When autumn days drew down,
it returned to the living room,
light as paper but still mostly green—

except for pink fins
pressing out in November,
month of my birthday,
from every suddenly laden stem.

Two days in the house—and
air schools of shrimp
took to the warm currents,
crowning the whole head
for an entire week!

Now it is December,
winter before us,
but spring still so new
I can rinse my hands in it.

Ann Goldsmith‘s second book of poems, THE SPACES BETWEEN US, appeared in April 2010. She won the Quarterly Review of Literature’s Poetry Prize for her first book, NO ONE IS THE SAME AGAIN. Goldsmith holds a doctorate from the University of Buffalo, where she taught English for ten years. She has also served on the faculties of D’Youville and St. Trocaire Colleges, and worked as Western New York Coordinator for ALPS, a statewide poetry-in-the-schools organization. She has served as poet-in-residence at the Chautauqua Institution, and taught writing at Buffalo’s Trinity Center, which granted her an Excellence in Teaching Award. Her recently completed book of poems, WAITING AT THE TURN, is looking for a publisher.

Read an interview with Ann here.

“Eclipse Salamander” by Suzanne Stryk 1996 gouache on paper

I come from the careening wrong turn,
Holy Rollers, multiflora rose, and fists;
siltstone and slate embossed with ferns;
bituminous coal that pocks our land with holes
and pits, and makes an overseas company rich.
My trailer stands at the end of a derelict road
I never would have found.  Showers at night
fill my gutters with knuckles of hail,
scattershot ice a bruising reminder to me
that I am really in my body, and not in a dream,
when I go out to smell the world set alive.
Taking welts on my back, I move past wood scraps
and junk cars, to the well-house where I draw
sulfur ooze, a bucket of the true, the dark, the raw.

William Kelley Woolfitt lived in West Virginia for over twenty years, and now teaches creative writing and literature at Lee University, in the foothills of the Appalachians. He is the author of The Salvager’s Arts, co-winner of the 2011 Keystone Chapbook Prize. His writings have appeared or are forthcoming in Cincinnati Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Ninth Letter, Shenandoah, Los Angeles Review, Sycamore Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Hayden’s Ferry Review. He goes walking on the Appalachian Trail or at his grandparents’ farm in West Virginia whenever he can.

“Absentee” first appeared in Talking Leaves, in slightly different form.

Read an interview with William here.

“The Collector’s Secret” by Suzanne Stryk 2001

These are the things she buried: the skull of her pet rabbit whose name was Sometimes Fred, a dog whistle, a pair of purple knitting needles, a feather from a guinea hen, all black and white laddered. She climbs the oak and joins herself to the trunk with streamers of spider web and weary people come to watch her turn to shaggy bark. It is taking a long time, but that she expected. The people send up sandwiches using the pulley system she pilfered from a tree house where the children no longer play. The Ladies Garden Club brings old tires and fills them with dirt to plant Sweet Williams and Purple Viking potatoes. One morning she sees a man walking his white turkeys. In the evenings when all the people have gone back to their domesticities, she watches a family of skunks tumble past in the moonlight. She dreams when it is windy, but mostly about the stove and iron. Did she remember to turn them off?

Lisa J. Cihlar‘s poems appeared or are forthcoming in The South Dakota Review, Green Mountains Review, Crab Creek Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Blackbird.   She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her chapbook, “The Insomniac’s House,” is available from Dancing Girl Press and a second chapbook, “This is How She Fails,” is available from Crisis Chronicles Press. She lives in rural southern Wisconsin.

“Lives of the Birds,” (detail) by Suzanne Stryk, 2010

Believe me when I say
I tried not to apply deeper meaning
to ordinary happenings
like the blood that dripped from your nose
onto the splayed open pages
of the book on my nightstand
but we think divine
of the commonplace
to entertain and explain
to explore the connections
at the synapse
that abstract the direct
blur the narrative
into a form that takes new meaning
like the title page spotted
with dried brown blood
as if the American
who fucked his way through Paris
in the pages that followed
had something important to say.

Michael Sarnowski earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Vanderbilt University, where he was a recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize. His poetry has appeared in Potomac Review, The Adirondack Review, Underground Voices, and Foundling Review, among others. He currently lives in Rochester, New York, where he is a Visiting Assistant Professor of English at the Rochester Institute of Technology.

Read an interview with Michael here.

“Lives of the Birds” #4, by Suzanne Stryk, 2009

Looking to buy some happiness
maybe a dose of self-respect
she combs her fingers through the racks,
sale or otherwise,
knowing the possibility is there.

If only she could find it.

The one thing to guarantee bliss,
carry her weight
for the rest of the day.

Cold marble floors
industrial with purpose
polished three hours earlier
know the point of her pursuit.

Brushed cottons
loose linens
raw silks
hold comfort.

Here,
in this buffet of hope
she seeks out a smile,
a reflection in the chrome
she will at once recognize.

Intercoms and lost children
mists of new scents
the intoxicating knowledge
that anything is possible.

Smartly altered mirrors convince
and disguise last night’s restless sleep.

Here,
there is a chance of renewal.
Plastic overpowers and creates an armor
offering just a taste of worth.

Lori A. May is the author of four books including The Low-Residency MFA Handbook: A Guide for Prospective Creative Writing Students (Continuum, 2011). Her poetry and literary nonfiction has appeared in publications such as Phoebe, Caper Literary Journal, Steel Toe Review, and qarrtsiluni. She lives online at www.loriamay.com.

Read an interview with Lori here.