The Climatologist

by Micah White

On the stick two pink lines appear. The climatologist curses and throws the applicator in the trash before fishing it out and examining it again. She sits on the toilet in her cabin, her underwear in a heap at her feet. Her job is to save the planet, she reminds herself, not impose upon it another mouth to feed. She considers the postgrads, the damage done. 

She pulls a cocktail dress from her suitcase. Sequins sheen beneath the cabin’s fluorescent bulbs. She dresses, accents herself with heels, mascara, Indonesian pearls. She’d rather not attend the party, even though it is for her. One, two: contact lenses in. Glasses on the nightstand, secure in their case. Today she is forty-two, far over the hill and bound by slowly shrinking ice. She slips her bare arms into her parka to thwart the hallway’s frost.

Through the canteen door she spots her students drinking beer and wonders whose genetic material she bears. She enters the room, her hands on her stomach. The two students stand and smile. The crew begins to sing. A cake is brought. Jazz seeps through speakers. Arctic sea nudges the hull. Balloons burst. Confetti falls like rain.

Adam had been apprehensive. He worried about consequences. He asked if he should get something but she said: no, there’s no need. In the dark of her cabin his beard scratched her neck, and she warmed her hands on shoulders sculpted by years toiling atop glacial fields.

In his toast Adam says: to my mentor. Everyone drinks.

Clint had lost the timidness and stutter she remembered from his freshman year. In his cabin, amid her giggles and his fumbling with her buttons, she begged him to be quiet, to heed the walls. He ran to his dresser, searching, but she said: no, there’s no need.

In his toast Clint says: to my muse. Everyone drinks.

The party slows. She draws her two students close and says: Come, I want to show you something. In the lab she takes from the freezer a six-foot core she drilled this morning. They huddle around it, their heads near enough to feel each other’s heat. In the ice they see the world as it used to be.

At the Turn of the Road

by R. K. Biswas

Is it dusk already? The doves
on the electric pole must have gone home.
In here, your heart is bleeding away
into the pool of your unbearable solitude.
When did the eggs crack open?
When did their wings become dry?
The sun had laughed at you from behind his screen
of clouds. You had turned to face the wind
once, twice, thrice.
But the answers were always the same.
And now, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing
takes away the sharpness
of knives whittling down bones.
Soon, they will be gone. You will not
know the hour of departure when it comes,
even after the door has closed behind them.

Wake up

To the grass bending to receive
its daily pint of dew. To the road lying quiet
beneath the stampede of day. To last
night’s embers that still harbour
a spark or the hope of a spark. It’s time
to go back to that last full moon, when
you had an urge to pluck the orb
fresh off the sky and place it on
your warm sticky tongue. White
as the flavour of spearmint gum,
and as cold as a slice of arctic ice,
melting slowly, radiating

                                         its aura around you.

This is the taste of solitude.
Its sweetness is divine. Its touch thinner
than a dove’s eggshell. Its scent
more delicate than a damselfly’s wing. And,
its harmony is one that can never be known
in the company of constant love. 

Oriental Darter Birds

by R. K. Biswas

Something disturbs.   
There is a movement
in the rushes and waterweeds. And you
see them rise
as one. They dive
into paling air. Black
flap of wings dropping dew-like
returning water to the marsh beneath
them. They dive upwards.
Their necks snaking
towards sky. Smoke
from scud scatters at a touch
of their webbed feet. Light swims
from wing
tip to wing tip.     
Into the waiting blue
they go. Become dots like pock
marks on sky-skin. And then,
downward bound again
they swoop
to where the minnows
beckon, and frogs play
dead among the unhurried pace
of water snails.  Intense-eyed they seek
only that
which their bodies can keep.
Unlike man.  Unlike
man’s ceaseless greed.


by R. K. Biswas

A few days before she leaves, she teaches me
a new word. Petrichor. And when I forget
its shape and sound, remembering only
the taste, touch and smell of it, she points
to the moist evening outside, inhaling from
the soaked earth, asphalt, flower pots, car tops,
anything that rain cared to visit. Petrichor,
she repeats. I murmur after her. A chant
that I will wear like a talisman in the barren
months ahead. Dread spread by newspapers.
Fear from TV channels. More than what
I had ever dreamed of. At her age I had been
almost foolhardy… But now my heart is wet.
Horses thunder past my bed
when I lie down at night. Their clean animal scents
linger on. I can see the meandering pathway
from her school stables. I see her going
to the most solitary place on earth. Grass pitch
they call it. Her mates and her. Serene. Empty
of everything but the gentlest of beings. Where grass
meets bog meets clear water meets sky meets
slender steep eucalyptus trunks. She comes here
I know. And not always on horseback. She comes here
alone to gather silence. I do not fear this place.
The ones I do, are closer home. I am so
powerless. I cannot compress the world
she inhabits now. I cannot return her
to my womb where petrichor is eternal.

Hormonal Snares

by Astrid Cabral.
Translated by Alexis Levitin.

You turn the corner
and no lascivious gaze
envelops you from breast to thigh.
On the peopled street no one
to arouse your instincts
and take an x-ray of your body.
You have gone from woman to person.
The mirror never lies.
For your part, you feel
disengaged from all entanglements
safe from passion and the jeopardy
of those hormonal snares.
But liberation does not bring exhilaration.
You are far still from an angel.


by Astrid Cabral.
Translated by Alexis Levitin.

No sooner do you touch the trophy
than the brightness dims.
Seize a star
and you will find between your fingers
a skeleton of battered tin.
Take the beloved from the castle
both crown and scepter will be lost.
Better leave the trophy
on the shelves of Olympus.
Let the star stay in its galaxy.
And let the loved one dwell among the clouds.
Familiarity defiles
and corrupts all things.
With the divine, distance
plays its part. Only the impossible
partakes of the celestial breath.

Ancient Scenario

by Astrid Cabral.
Translated by Alexis Levitin.

The outizeiro tree beside the wall
has only grown a bit.
There is more rust on the gate
and the house has gathered moss
along with streaks carved
by the plowshare of the rains.
In fact, nothing has changed.
But where are the tender words
(I thought eternal)
the caresses still timid
the ecstasy of discovery?
It is as if everything has
gone down the drain
and what we lived was nothing
but a dream or imagining.
You went away and now come back
like an afflicted soul,
one of those that prowled
the terrors of my childhood.
And so I say, get away from me, nostalgia,
leave no trace of me,
that bud blossoming beneath caresses.
Beside that wall, I now discover:
the heart is not mere muscle.
More than anything, it is a sepulcher.

Death By Water

by Astrid Cabral.
Translated by Alexis Levitin.

The first time
no one saw the danger.
Even her mother smiled thinking
how dramatic that child is
and saw her once again beneath an acacia tree
swooning in pretended death.
How lucky that, responding to her cries,
an angel suddenly appeared among the leafy branches
to snatch her from the river’s navel.

The second time
the wall of the sea came crashing down
a shroud upon a mermaid’s silhouette.
But it was a time of courtly love and valorous
gestures. Without delay
two chivalric gentlemen rose from the sand
and astride the backs of waves
conquered the marine monster
in service to the damsel fair.

The third and last time
upon a breast shaken with sobs
eyes unleashed a flood.
It was her soul that died departing
with her son’s dark skiff headed back to clay.
This time there was no escape from foundering.
When her body floated up from
the abyss, it was a drifting corpse,
soul severed by the razor-edge of pain.


by Jack Foley

                        “Am I speaking to anyone but myself?”


heaven is near
I spent a few hours last night
re-reading Brambu Drezie Book III
(the Book I know least well)
heaven is near
how is it possible
that something I do NOT understand
should appear to be so abundantly clear
I think
the beauty of the language has
something to do with this—
the many stories, the images (strange,
disturbing), the rambling, “subjective” passages—
all have the feeling
of a vast piece of music
heaven is near
It is no more to be understood
than music
and no less—
“Nietzsche, like Saint John of the Cross, knew that night too is a sun”
“I hear animal shapes in the song”
“I’m tore open raw and clean”
If the poem is like anything
it is like Eliot’s Waste Land
except that Eliot’s Waste Land
has spawned an industry of “explication”
an industry of “understanding”
which I don’t think can be done with
Berry’s great work
The poem is no more to be understood
than life is to be understood
though it is
heaven is near
(like life)
to be experienced
“I came here,” Jake writes,
“to speak to the dead
and found them alive
and possessed by a green fire—
branches and leaves
grew from their shoulders”
that green
heaven is near
is Whitman’s color
and the color of life
“I fold my hands on my lap and study
the raw nerve trees burning
I move in their fever”
the lines
move in my heart