3.3

Forms In Between Poetry Fiction Creative Nonfiction Visual

Explore this Issue

Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  U n b u r y t h e S e v e n t h A vase on the table of past. Six selves missing the seventh. Red Carnation. What words were left? Ones that satisfied everything but happiness, loss? Is the cowardly world conquerable together? But weren’t they always on their own? I have lived a thousand lives already. Every day I find relics of myself in the sand. The death of the self. The heroism in the unattainable.                   B y t h e E d g e o f E n d Here lies a companion for nature’s ground. The antagonist for ...

Read More

Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  T o T h e L i g h t h o u s e Conformed to the bay. Illuminating. Inaccessible. Indefinite. Certain of a love. A painting. A destination. A home. Changing as time travels. Blues parallel. Destruction comes. Ground eats away. Constant reminder of an intertwined melody. Of delicacy. Of the mirror. Of the waves. V ‘ s D i a r y Saturday, August 12th Hovering in your mind today after you read Dickens and Austen. The Moths. The image. The struggle in your pen. Wednesday, September 25th The Waves now. You wanted to quit. I’m thankful you didn’t. It wasn’t pleasurable to write. I promise, it was pleasurable to read. Saturday, November 30th Your room at ...

Read More

Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

  I n s i d e r The sea always comes back. Is that why you love the waves? Indefinite.                                                                          “We may sink and settle on the waves.” Rhythmic pounding marked passages of time. Whose breath comes, goes unconsciously.                                                                         “Who am I? Am I all of them? Am I one and                                                                             distinct? I do not know.” Oceans commune at the shore line before break.                                                                         “And the words that trail drearily without                                                                             human meaning; I will reduce you to order.” Your outside was full of disorder, confusion. What were the little things that wept?                                                                       “Beech trees, the river bank, where the                                                                         trees meet united like lovers in the ...

Read More

Kelli Pomroy

This is a Letter to Virginia Woolf

D e a r V – I Hysterical as I read how you loathed Freud. He claims psychoanalysis brought about your creativity and that you needed to see a therapist. I bet you were thankful for Leonard; he put Freud in his place. “If Virginia had gone to see somebody about her mental breakdowns, the creativity, the madness, it would have stopped.”Good for him. It was more Preferable to be mad and creative than to be analyzed. Who wants to remember that horrible dress your mom made you wear to St. Ives anyway? You said you “ceased to be obsessed by ...

Read More

Megan M. Garr

Albus

Light happens to be behind / all wonder, even your little piles. / When I see your / hands and his hands, / earth everywhere, the earth bowled out. / Spores and worms and dirt under your nails. / The start of all starts.

Read More

Megan M. Garr

Terrane

And there at the upturn earth                            we kneel                                                         to speak Color as much as anywhere                                          dear island It is a god’s frenzy that heaves holy water                        into the willing air And it is there silica there obsidian there enough to believe in heaven                                                         But is that fear that tremor or is it fingers tilling this earth to land upon ...

Read More

Megan M. Garr

Terrane

What we leave when we leave A planet somewhere Its aluminum seas If at dawn and if its strands And if its forms and tendons Where the land where there is nothing hushed The glacier’s ablation we are propelled Hold vast fast To the atmosphere its skins The empty empty Miles homewards cold for days No less than stars their shudders No less than home unblinking Wake to this second your Everything summoned on reentry Look now how the city Let fall the land a whole country Continue to “Terrane” ...

Read More

Martina Reisz Newberry

Los Dinamos Creek

In the scratchy grass, I slept until the sun / burned my forehead and thumped my eyelids. // I dreamed that sugar skulls lined up on vendors’ countertops / for Dia de los Muertos, winked at me, stuck out their red jelly tongues.

Read More

Martina Reisz Newberry

A Cete of Badgers, A Sleuth of Bears

In recent dreams, the desert bites at my life, trying to take in pieces what it tried to take all at once while I lived there. In a town of tanned bodies, tanned faces, I stayed pale as a finger bone. Unable to maintain a noble silence, I tore at my hair, ran through the bars and restaurants, my soul nipping at my heels. On the patios where the precious pay dearly for drinks, conversations were made of Os—no silences, no sounds of turning pages. I watched the sun all day, everyday, that 3 o’clock “O be joyful” waiting for me—ice cubes or champagne flutes, it was all the ...

Read More

Tessa Kale

Demeter’s Night Mare

An ancient hand was found; then a limb, a head / on the grounds of the old Greystone mansion: / when they were put together again / they found it was Demeter, from Greece.

Read More

Tessa Kale

The Strange Masks

                                                                 Admit it though there are hands and feet, there are no bodies— this is why they are frightening! behind is only emptiness.                                                                  Hands grasp a ...

Read More