Flying Island

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 6.28 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Zoe Boyer , Doris Lynch , and Joshua Kulseth . Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers

Heatwave Fever breaks, sun slipping behind the peak,  earth’s brow sweating off a last bead of light.  Cool air is a spell compelling me from the  bed’s burning sheets to the balcony door where the silhouettes of cafe chairs sit angled in  quiet communion and the dome of stars is  planetarium-bright; I can almost hear a voiceover intoning,  to the naked eye, Venus appears… The neighbors have made a nightclub of  their garage, the yawning door letting loose their  raucous whoops, a drunken belt of  Piano Man .  This is all we can ask of a heatwave, housebound  until moonrise, then these few hours respite folded  between the tight seam of blaze and black, the moon  a spotlight on the driveway’s stage as neighbors  emerge from the wings, mountains hulking  darkly now the houselights have dimmed, and from the cheap seats, all the pine trees are waving.  Zoe Boyer was raised in Evanston, Illinois on the shore of Lake Michigan, and completed her MA in creative writing among the ponderosa pi

Ballet with Kimono and Underthings After a Photo by Dorothea Lange: “Wash-Day 40 Hours Before Evacuation of Persons of  Japanese Ancestry from the Farming Community" They gave us only two days to pack and store or give away our valuables, to notify bosses  and bill collectors, to drape our furniture  into animal shapes, to lock our houses  and apartments. They urged us to wash laundry  first, warning us of dusty conditions at Manzanar.   Deep in the armoire’s darkness, I shrouded  our Sunday best.  Next, I washed the everyday things— stirring with a pole in the sixteen-gallon wooden pail,  scrubbing stains with a bristle brush, the remnant bar of Ivory.   Through tears, I hung on the line my husband’s shirts  and pants, my oldest kimono, two skirts, a half-slip, a few underthings. Though there was much to do--scrub floors,  give away perishables, feed and release the cats,  I found myself twirling by the irrigation ditch  watching my blue and gladiola-flowered kimono,  and my hus

Nisus and Euryalus In winter shut behind doors we’d shoot  contests from the foul line: a game           of who could make most in a row. Beginning again and again until our arms ached, when dinner was called           we walked back to the common room as slow as we liked, practically touching we were so close, jostling one another,           gravel sliding underfoot. I watched you in a game of pickup, moving between defenders,  cutting to the basket; it was like they were           fumbling in the dark— you made it look that easy, and I loved you. On the court  unstoppable; we swatted the ball,           fluid in our moving together. You caught me up into yourself cracking  jokes when I wanted to cry, taking me on walks            or to the courts to beat me again; you beat me at everything. It broke me  to lose you in the dark, in the brambles where I tried           retracing my steps, you in the enemy’s camp, captured or defected I couldn’t tell. I wept over leaving you alone to