David Iribarne earned a Bachelor of Arts in English from CSUS. He currently resides in Sacramento. He has had several poems published in Poetry Now, Tule Review, Sussurus, Catchword, Medusa’s Kitchen, Primal Urge, WTF?! and has had work in a The Creating Freedom exhibit on Domestic Violence at California Museum. He also won second prize in Sacramento News & Review’s student poetry contest in 2005. He also has a piece published in SPC’s Sacramento Anthology Late Peaches. One of his poems also was recently developed with other authors’ poems into a play by playwright Ed Claudio entitled The River City Anthology. He also will have a book of poetry published by Cold River Press next year in 2014.
Refuge
Afghans, sweaters, scarves, blankets
it was part of her nightly routine.
Sitting on the couch across from her
I marveled at how she knitted her web.
I loved watching her creations.
She begun with just a ball of yarn
and within a couple of hours
she had the makings of blanket or scarf.
It was how she masked the pain.
She would tell me that this
helped her deal with the pain.
The bullets that would coarse
through her veins.
The aches that would scream
in her legs.
Throbbing discomfort
in her stomach,
she would grit her teeth
tightly close her eyes.
I wondered if sometimes
she used the needles as weapons.
In her mind, she was stabbing
the monster repeatedly,
but he just wouldn’t die.
She used all her rage ,
all her anger,
all to no avail.
For just twenty minutes, for an hour
knitting is one of the few things
she could do to divert her mind.
It helped her escape.
I still have one of the afghans she made.
It’s a crimson red.
I often use it
during cold winter nights.
I think of the effort
she went through to make it.
The pain, the agony, but more so
the care, the love.
It keeps me warm and safe.
— David Iribarne
Beth Suter started writing poems as an undergraduate at U.C. Davis and continued writing during her years as a naturalist and teacher. Her work has appeared in The Yolo Crow, Brevities, and The Avocet. She has been a featured reader at The Other Voice. She lives in Davis with her husband and son.
Omens
The owl flying silently across the stars; last
night’s sleepy visions of white-booted cats; the
dead crow in the backyard, wings still spread
mid-dive into the grass – what is beyond the
atoms and bones and neurons of these? The
sun through big-leaf maples, biscuit clouds in
blue, the crescent leaf-shadows of an eclipse –
all I know is that I am on this list, just one
more amazement, no more knowable than
cloud or crow, no less miraculous.
Christine Easterly graduated from Miami University with a Master’s in Technical and Scientific Communication. She has been writing poetry for 30 years and has begun reading at open mics in Sacramento. Christine was recently published in WTF?!
Guest
How long did your furred body
buffeted first by highway winds
then rocked between the boats on mountain roads
cling, two legs twisted beneath you
to the rough towel
dad used to cushion the kayaks
from the cab of his truck?
From which microclimate did your creamy moth-wings
flutter a greeting to the sun this morning?
From which predator does the orange eye
marking each of your hindwings protect you?
Amongst which blooms?
Will you survive?
You made my hand your home
the 30 minutes you spent with me
a gift, wrapped perfectly
by the moment I raised my fingers
to see you gone
legs strong, wings pulsing, off
to guest at the lake.
— Christine Easterly
