Flying Island

Winter Noise by Lylanne Musselman Listen to the echoes in the heart of winter: snow shovels scrape concrete, tires roll over brittle ice, arthritic tree branches pop and crack as they move in the whistling breeze. Canada geese trumpet their flight across the crisp bright sky, and like parachutists smaller feathered friends drop in at full feeders, chirp delight while seeds shuffle onto frozen ground. One unexpected day, after months of muffled noise suffered under too much snowfall, you will hear the constant dripping of shiny icicles — winter’s suicidal melt, drumming in spring sounds. Bio: Lylanne Musselman is a native Hoosier with many family, friendship, and poetry ties that keep her returning often. An award-winning artist and poet, she has been published in many literary journals and anthologies. She’s authored three chapbooks, and co-authored Company of Women: New and Selected Poems (Chatter House Press, 2013) with Jayne Marek and Mary Sexson. Alt

Fall Creek Parkway Indianapolis 1959 by John Sherman I know just where she was along fall creek parkway south of the marott apartments that I now drive by every week   how often I glance at the sidewalk that I have designated the very spot where she was in full stride on her way to school when a young white boy cried out at her from the yellow bus that rushed into her life and pushed on through heavy traffic before she could hear our collective gasp and our own words of anger at an unseemly act   a frozen series of moments remembered: the back of the girl’s head the long gray coat the shoulders bent over an armful of books a second or two before his sudden leap across the bus to get to the window   his word our reaction   as adults we remember most clearly the split-second joyful and hurtful intensities of childhood: the boy’s sudden leap into the air the jerk of our heads in his direction the open mouthed face protruding  

Change is possible. From under my skin I know this. From inside out I know this. By the fire that burns white hot in the dark place I know this. Change comes at night. Change comes as Maiden Moon mothers Crone. Change comes. Change. Come, change. Come. And in the chant, in the pale light of the Crone it comes, it comes. The cool damp of cold wet walls comforts me, quiets me. I drop song, all sound, blouse, bra, pants, panties. Naked now I stand, ready, open, willing. Energy rises. It warms from within, erupts on the skin of my arms, my legs, my belly. The hair grows long, longer, shags the floor. Fingers meld, face morphs, whiskers sprout, tail spindles. I pad to the door, stretch all four feet, slip into the night. I lift snout and howl my desire to you, Dark Lady. Distance keeps him alive. Would that he were closer. I would sniff him out as he sleeps, open his neck, rend and tear with teeth his pale white flesh. Then would they be safe, my children, my future. Out of his reach

Alphabetics of the Comforters by Jayne Marek   Folded, bedclothes rise in crests toward the storms. One side of night pressed down, invisible, the other Inescapable, a cradle of waiting. Hours of minuscule cat footsteps cross the floor To listen at black walls. Hard to believe anyone might have hidden Something precious under the pillow Where it could easily wrap the mind’s eye In scarves that never rest, that Unfold their hunger, Pointing toward the wind’s escape, Shaping the hieroglyphic Of a name in a forgotten alphabet One is required to know. Cold Promise by Jayne Marek   So rare to have the windows open in autumn     On a day when the dry leaves click together         Stirred by a robin’s foot.   Still here, bird? You’ll be sorry if you linger too long     Among patches of thinning grass. Beetle buzz, bark scents waft in,     On damp weedy air.   It’s morning,         Time for the lawn to decide:   rot or parch? Irregular patches of light fall    

A Bird of Prey Always Has the Last Word by Tracy Mishkin   for Sherry Chandler I. Letter from Hawk on Christmas Day Thank you for filling the feeder and luring the cardinal down. I was hungry, perched in a pine and waiting. Fat target. Easy prey. I suppose you sought beauty: red bird, evergreens, fresh snow. I thought only of meat.   II. Reply to Hawk   The Currier & Ives notecard was a lovely touch. I know you have to eat. Why rub it in? Today I bought every can and box on sale, all for the food bank. When the season of warmth and giving is over, donations drop. Like you, the children have to eat. They are not sentimental about their food.   III. Hawk Drops One Last Note   A donation in my honor? Precious. When I have children I cannot feed, they shrivel in the nest and I watch them die. Bio: Tracy Mishkin is a career immigrant. Born in academia, she taught in Georgia and published two books on African-American literature,