Scrap Iron, by Mark Jay Brewin Jr.

Incarnadine, by Mary Szybist

The Big Smoke, by Adrian Matejka

The Whole Field Still Moving Inside It, by Molly Bashaw

Women’s Poetry: Poems and Advice, by Daisy Fried

Folly, by David Axelrod

American Busboy, by Matthew Guenette

Begging for It, by Alex Dimitrov

My Father’s Kites, by Allison Joseph

 

 

Mark Jay Brewin, Jr.

 

Mark Jay Brewin, Jr. is a graduate student at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale, finishing his first year of studies in poetry.  He has presented papers and read original works at the Sigma Tau Delta National English Convention, been finalist in the North Carolina State Poetry Contest, and was awarded the Fredrick A. Hartmann Award in creative writing.  During his undergraduate studies at Elon University, in North Carolina, he was awarded several grants and fellowships for poetry and photography, which culminated in a Senior Thesis Project that won Best of Show.  His poetry has recently been accepted for publication in New Delta Review and Packingtown Review; his artwork has recently been accepted as cover work for Pennsylvania English, the literary journal out of Pennsylvania State University.

 

 

 

 

What Marie Curie Discovered After Her First Nobel Prize

                        1903, Journal Entry titled, Substance M’s Presence:

           

Two weeks after exhausting the prize money,

after mounting the new tub basin, sink taps

and flush toilet—one morning, using the washroom,

feeling the cold tile on my bare feet—I looked around

to admire the clean cast iron, and noticed

a grimy patch lingering between the porcelain bowl

and floor.  I pulled the cistern chain, washed my hands

before taking a lukewarm wet rag to the mold sprout,

and promptly forgot it.  Two weeks more, I found

three weedy mold blossoms in the mildew’s place.

It looked like a gray, seeding dandelion

the length of my little toe.  I harvested the buds

in an envelope, employed a baking soda paste to tidy

the surrounding area.  Yet, their fuzzy blooms recurred.

The following months I applied vinegar, lemon juice,

rubbing alcohol, borax and salt, but no reward.

How stubborn.  Then, abruptly, it was gone.

I studied each day for some trace of scum, for naught.

One evening, with this taken to Pierre, he surprised me

by news he sealed the gap around the toilet mount

with heavy wax.  It is queer to see my flowers absent—

I never did figure out what solvent would rid them.

 

 

 

 

 

Dogcatcher’s Science Lesson

 

Dogcatcher starts at signposts, looking

for stapled flyers about lost border collies

and schnauzers answering to Fritz,

but he doesn’t like the lost mongrels

nearly as much as the ones with no past

or collar or housetraining.  At the pound,

he has nests of kennels heaped

like logs on a woodpile.  He moseys along

the pen rows sipping ginger brandy

from a bean can, scribbles numbers

and days and dates in a drugstore notebook,

trying to plot the shelf life of caged dogs. 

Dogcatcher has figured that a natural

“runner” mutt—cooped up—doesn’t last

more than a year, but note taking is still ongoing.