Ataraxia

Vol. 5• May/201 4

selected literature with illustrations

Like a Bandage

by Jason Heroux

Like a bandage

the red traffic l ight

keeps changing

the red traffic l ight

keeps changing

and changing

l ike a bandage

on some wound

the red traffic l ight

keeps changing

Ceci N'est Pas Une Poem

by Sam Alex

You and I shook hands under a sunburn sky

and agreed to move me, pedicured by worms off the

lawn.

I grabbed at my own hands, felt the friction of fruitless

labour,

you eye my sense of commitment; this spade is a spade-

is a blade, good for digging graves in an August shade.

My grandfather was a horticulturist, I am a

conversationalist-

as I ’m pull ing spare roots, making space for my boots.

I l ift myself a rag doll and gently let myself pass-

l ike a moment,

l ike the calm before the storm.

This is because I asked;

How good is your heart?

I ’ve a lab coat, a grocery mart scale,

and I weighed the bulk of it to no avail .

I t was an empty thing, made anorexic by a ring.

Did we not agree to rob banks and liquor stores?

when we’re gunned down behind our car doors?

and we’d take poison and asps,

and wear the same identical rib-

the one I feel now, crushed by your infidel ity.

But you are my valve you say, pig part,

we shall bury you too

and so we made a move of me-

me, where I lay- where I col lapsed,

and swallowed the past, taste of ash.

Our love is trash, an unrecyclable truth

that brought us no use.

Let’s haunt ourselves, the guilt is addictive,

a séance for some sycophants.

Let’s take aim at us,

hunt ourselves down in foxless forests,

I married you for this.

Francisco

by Laura Eppinger

Francisco Hernandez, seven

years old and a saint, I pray

he never changes.

One child has a tantrum

over snack choices, Cisco

administers a plush sea turtle. The storm

passes quickly. His stuffed squids

passed around the room, running

tentacles over train tracks, peeking dark

eyes out of Lego towers. I ’d offer

up anything to know that Cisco wil l

have a life so ful l of adventure.

No one soothes l ike Cisco, the

outcast kids, the biters, the criers,

the ignored. A bright figurine moves

from one set of brown

hands to another—an iguana, a macaw,

a marmoset, a tree frog—miracles,

al l . Before you can say abracadabra,

the tears melt away, as if unwept

and the kids who just can’t focus, play.

I want to tel l him, Thank You,

for being so just, but

Cisco is busy beneath

the sea (underneath a table) and

I won’t pul l him back to the classroom,

no, not yet.

The Windhover

by Colin Honnor

Sparrowhawk hovering bow

fly mica hovers amber bead

waterboatman cruise serendipitously

of his blowsy meniscus

stone drops to ripple, its wrinkled

ammonite back is a flanged

frog nubbed for adaptation

as we observe the blind wingedbolt

fly dazzled into doubleplated glass

Guides that falcon, instinct, to fl ight

an egret summer in so vivid blue

sings of its fruiting, hawk above thorn tree

l ike a flaw in lapis lazul i

so that we thought there could never be

a sky to over blue in Mary’s colour

the hawk unbridled veers, vectors down

towards that rustle in stubble

above the stooked field

plucks the white heart from the blue heart.

THE BRIDAL LAMENT

by Zamira Rahim

Intimacy’s l iquid tragedy, seeping

viscous kohl adornment.

Soul wrapped at cusp with ma’s fi l igree veil

grand mater’s once; bought then beyond

virginal dawn unrelated to mark gleaming

upon collarbone. Begin -

a drunk boxed out of Delhi,

pawning twenty carat bangles for sampling claret

and cobalt, sweet of Eid. Middl ing -

father dearest. Sl ightest enunciation upward

compell ing maternal feet

to run; voice fi l l ing physical ity’s crevice.

Babe traced some invisible bruise,

a kiss into psyche.

And in the low light conspire

to spring a husband upon

prodigal, proverbial Nineteen.

The ell ipses of stories own

muffled by thought of blue moon reputation5

so conclude with me the coward,

jaundiced eyes and jasmine hair prostrated

within bloodl ine trap.

Burn out al l stars, scorch breeze ‘ti l si lvered.

Listen. Hearts keen anew.

Ataraxia is a monthly zine organized, edited,

and printed by Rasasvada. We publish various

projects online and in limited paper copies.

Find more poems, stories, articles, art

and info about submitting your own work

at rasasvada.net

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