Christina Villafana Dalcher
Separation I dream we're at Gran's house on my birthday and they tell me to wait at the far edge of the cornfield for my surprise and I do it, because I'm eight and I like surprises but they say not to come back until they call and they don't, even though I hear them laughing and I see the twinkle lights and smell the smoke from Poppy's woodfire while it draws curlicues against the moon. * The blueberry swirled candyâ€”not a cane, because it doesn't curve, but one of those straight old-fashioned stick candies they used to sell at stores called Ben Franklin and Five and Dimeâ€”becomes an ice pick while I shiver in the cold and watch my parents twirl and dance on a white sheet, performing camel spins and arabesques while a giant man made of gold looks on. * Five hundred feet over the water is a bridge with no rails and I don't know where it goes but I need to cross and I need to make sure my foot doesn't slip, but I know it will slip and I might not make it to the right side where my mates are waiting and I'll be part of the cool water, heavier than foam and lighter than reefs. A mermaid. * On our first morning at our first house, I leave my first husband in bed and make the coffee and stand with it in the driveway watching colored leaves blow around my ankles while I pull my robe tighter and breathe in bitter steam from a mug someone else gave me in high school, but I don't remember his name. * I wake up with a mouthful of teeth, but I didn't have any an hour ago and when tonight comes and I lie with the covers over my head they'll go away
Published on Dec 3, 2016
Our winter 2016 issue is bursting with contributions from nearly 30 international artists. Featuring more outlandish, brilliant poetry, flas...