16
CIRQUE
Brenda Roper
J. Ramsey Golden
Approaching Lindisfarne
born of sky so sharp it cuts itself and bleeds pink-green light on coasts of frosted shoal on labyrinths of ice and stone they emerge from fog air hisses across their skin keeping breath with the oars muscles tighten reach creak of leather wood the ocean’s bearing shoulders narrow broaden narrow closing in they slow slither-slow and cease
Phil Gruis
Postponing penance
Please direct me to the person (or other entity) to whom (or which) I may confess. And my confession is this: I am not sucking up my share of this world’s miseries.
they drift silence holds the sky above conspiracies of wind hushing pines along the shore they wait oars aloft the ocean trembles smoke trickles from the horizon seeps into a gloaming sky steel stirs against their thighs their oars fin-faithful sink then surface fast falling drum steady rise gleaming dripping silver plunge toward shore
I’m not sick, broke, incarcerated or foreclosed upon. Can’t get laid off – haven’t had a job in years. I am loved by a woman and a dog and I’m not widely detested – if only because I’m not widely known. I have pills, and the list of things about which I don’t give a shit magically grows longer each day. Sorry about all this – but in my next life I promise to make myself miserable, and others as well.