The William & Mary Review Vol. 56

WMR

The William & Mary Review Volume 55 2017

56

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The William & Mary Review

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Volume 56

2018

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Frank Fucile Makeda Jackson Samantha White

The William & Mary Review (ISSN: 0043-5600) is published by the College of William and Mary in Virginia (est. 1693) once each academic year. A single, post-paid issue is $5.50. A surcharge of $1.50 applies for subscriptions mailed outside of the United States of America.

COPYRIGHT 2018

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Table of Contents Untitled cover painting FORBES GRAHAM Emu Poem 6 poem MATTHEW J. SPIRENG Motus 7 photo SHAY BOISVERT When We Go 8 poem HOLLY DAY Turkish Cup, Glass Blocks, in Window REBECCA PYLE

9

photo

the time i fell in love for one second tïrïngō

10

poem

Magnitudine Temporis 13 photo SHAY BOISVERT kitchen noises 14 poem JANET CANNON Heirloom Carrots 15 painting HENRY STANTON

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Elimination Recovery Entries ROB COOK

16

poem

to you 20 poem A.R. MARTIN This: A Review of Visions M. RUSSEK

21

photo

After Reading Family Correspondance EDWARD DERBY

22

poem

Untitled 5156 23 photo LEIGH HERRICK How to Ride the Ferry from Waterside to Portsmouth ANDY FOGLE

24

poem

Storm 26 linocuts Darkwood ANNI WILSON Flood 28 poem LAURA McCOY Intersection 29 sculpture MARCIA WOLFSON RAY

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Span 30 poem LAURA McCOY Thunder 32 poem CAROL ELLIS Kadosh IV 33 painting FORBES GRAHAM The Half-Life of Everything PAUL FREIDINGER

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poem

Mountains 35 linocut ANNI WILSON Mulch 36 poem CHRIS ASTWOOD Cave 38 painting CURTIS ANTHONY BOZIF Hair Poem #2 39 poem HOLLY DAY About Coyotes 40 poem CHRISTOPHER PORCARO Contributors 42

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Emu Poem (for Kelly) Matthew J. Spireng They swore they would not consider one more emu poem, and I was prepared to accommodate them with something other, but then I looked out to the back yard and there was Big Bird, or what might have seemed Big Bird were it not truly an emu in a back yard in upstate New York.

I wasn’t sure what to do, and then it disappeared and so who would I tell who might believe me? I said nothing, but the following day when I read in the newspaper that an emu had escaped from its enclosure and snarled traffic on a busy highway and a cop tried to make like a cowboy and lassoed the emu which broke its neck and killed it, I realized people would believe me, so I told about the emu I saw and wrote this, thus an emu poem, though they swore they would not look at another emu poem, but I figured, hell, this isn’t like any other emu poem they’ve seen.

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Shay Boisvert

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When We Go

Holly Day

When I disappear, it will be to follow some jazz trio from Eastern Europe bent on subverting and seducing middle-aged housewives across the country, with plans to take us back with them put handkerchief headgear on us and cotton aprons wide enough to cover our breasts completely.

We will all be pregnant by the time the plane touches down some with trombones, some with castanets all of us fretting about our American accents how vodka doesn’t taste as good drunk from an old goat skin, and how our lovers insist that we stop shaving our armpits and writing home how we must stop pretending this is just another phase.

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Rebecca Pyle

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the time i fell in love for one second tïrïngō

one second two seconds three two sets of eyes meet a pond reflects into an ocean one second two seconds three through the dusty, spotted window of the dilapidated taxi I am transfixed I look, and he looks back but what does he search for?

Oh God! what does he search for?

I search and see highborn cheekbones

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God! His eyes piercing me crucifying me driving me to madness and beyond I am transfixed his skin is the color of deep earth warmed almost crimson by Sun real and real again and though his brow is furrowed his eyes, God save my soul, his eyes!

But a shade lighter than his skin and yet I have never in all my years seen Depth seen Sorrow and Joy so married seen such Passion seen Life and Death and Good and Evil seen Fear and Courage and Strength and Weakness all mixed together in a murky sea of clear red earth all present and there, right there and he is not much older than me but much more than me has he seen the sea is big, and the fish are many this I know he stands on the edge of the sidewalk quietly and surely his eyes hold mine and I drown happily Time relaxes its grip on Reality

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one second two seconds three?

Traffic! I have never loved thee as much as I loved thee in those moments!

For in those moments my soul passed through the dusty, spotted window of the dilapidated taxi and I stood by his beside and my hand was with his and all creation held its breath as I lost mine he is a somber man, yes but I loved him a dead man alive with the wear of life and how I loved Hades then and for a second I fell in love and then I was gone and he was gone my soul returned I was gone and he was gone one second two seconds three four

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Shay Boisvert

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kitchen noises Janet Cannon every time i walk into the kitchen i hear the noise of us left behind on the parade of fertile homemaking potentials whispering in the tea cups squeezing the streams of laughter draining far away every thing i touch reminds me of some bit of those heated high soprano sounds inside hearts beating furiously beside our open future the dishes seem to speak out coffee mugs try to mumble the worn wooden floor boards creak with empty sighs about the now of then

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about the you of when about the where of us

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Henry Stanton

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Elimination Recovery Entries Rob Cook 1.

Jaywalking now means “walking for jihad.”

I jaywalked the way any man sometimes jaywalks.

Only the shut-down stores watched me.

The wild-caught cars and grain-fed trucks and cancer-carrying bicycles fed elsewhere that day.

The others busied themselves on their placid phones.

No live thing saw me.

Then the flak-skinned men showed up in my sleep.

I don’t mean they banged on my door late and woke everyone and walked me down the glaring night show stairwell trumpeting “treason.” No. They figured out how to neural-hack my sleep, which is always online, looking for me, and listing the things I’ve done, the things I’ve thought about doing, and the things I’ve thought about only once.

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2.

Yesterday my neighbor got “eliminated” from her job. “Eliminated” means . . . not simply being told to never come back.

It means to become a different kind of citizen.

Someone once told me that when (never “if,” never fool yourself with that unjustified optimism) it becomes profitable to skin wide-awake people on live television, then wide-awake people will start getting skinned on live television. “Study hard!

Don’t get left behind,” he said, “not even among your friends!

Things happen to those who are alone.

It’s not the way it used to be.

No more hiding out in the gaudy isolation of the self channel-surfing for a place to hide what by now is too late to hide.”

3.

Propaganda: any effort toward making life bearable.

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4.

We will come after you. No matter how inconsequential you are, no matter how close to the ground you dwell. We will come after the tiniest words you throw. We’ve already reconfigured the output of Shakespeare. We deleted him, and we did it from over 400 years away.

We can do anything.

Anything.

Accept this fact. It’s already done. His plays never happened. Studies show that he was homosexual and therefore produced nothing of value.

The Elizabethan st(age) collapsed under troupe after troupe of venereal bugs trying to sing like humans.

There’s no Whitman either. And no, we did not kill him. Get past it and all the other things we keep illuminating for you. He died of AIDS the way anyone named Whitman dies of AIDS. He contained multitudes, indeed! The things he attempted to write only look large, but try living there—see if you can feed your family on that syphilis! The rooms of the self are small and tend to encourage rumination and discourage copulation, the meaningfulness between man and woman that our commander intended.

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5.

Will artificial intelligence lead to awareness so powerful it can bring back everything that’s died? Do all sentient beings contain a code that can be recovered at any time, no matter how long ago they left?

What will be done with the newly returned? What will be done to them (to us) when not one mental space is left in the universe?

6.

Unrelenting blue a day after warm Trump drizzle.

Some things end and some things never do.

Dr. Murphy put the purring heart of our home in a pillow and left her eyes wide open so the other buried cats might find her.

We lost the city this year. We’ve been losing the city every year, but now it is almost gone for good.

Soon we will not have enough money to stay.

May your eyes remain open, Sally Joy. May all the good of the ground make its way to you.

May you be what causes all the good of the ground to make its way.

May the followers and nano-moles of today never go looking for you.

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to you A.R. Martin Dorlene sits down to write a letter to Timothy, The love, the first, the only, Who’s so old-fashioned he likes letters and Vinyl records and Quarter gas and Pretending he still lives in a time Of love stories and Jim Crow Laws.

There are five things he must know.

Your mother died a week after You ran away and left behind your Car keys and cell phone and collection Of fungi-infected toe nails and rusty pennies.

In a fit of rage after realizing I Never loved you and didn’t know What love was and didn’t think Love was real, I shaved off My afro. If you return you’ll have nothing To grab when you say “It’s so soft.”

I never loved you and don’t Know what love is and don’t Think love is real.

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Our cat died two weeks after You ran away and left behind an empty Bag of litter and a cat that liked licking The blood of an open wound but couldn’t Chew through a human tongue.

She folds and seals the letter before Writing the fifth thing. It Doesn’t matter, as she will Write again.

M. Russek

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After Reading Family Correspondance Edward Derby Pretend I’m Poppy in Burma Writing you a letter. It’s 1942.

The censors black out “Burma.”

I am a white officer commanding A black regiment. Black out “commanding” How are the children? Are you getting new help with them? We’re building An airfield. Full sentence deleted.

I can’t tell you where I am Exactly. There’s much I can’t Tell you. I’m memorizing Kipling.

Burt and I had a week’s leave in Australia. “Australia” deleted.

Just received your letter Of May 23 complaining That I don’t write enough, That your polio-weakened legs Are a burden with three kids.

My eldest son has run away Again, and by May 26th’s post He has returned. Chide him.

You ask for news of me.

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Don’t worry, I’m well.

I leave my tent at dawn each Day and go for bracing walks Around the island. Delete “island” This should reach you around your birthday. Best Wishes. There’s hope we’ll All be home by Christmas.

At night, I hear your reedy voice.

I’m sorry about the babysitter.

Leigh Herrick

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How to Ride the Ferry from Waterside to Portsmouth Andy Fogle

1.

You can face where the ferry’s taking you, or where you are leaving. The former is ploddingly grand, while the sexy thing about the latter’s how your future glides over your shoulders, and then appears, first in your periphery, then your central. So you gotta weigh the merits of slow zoom versus come into view.

2.

Because, although the former is familiar, sooner or later, the latter just joins all the other stuff, loiters one way or another, however I turn, sliding all around me, out of sight, but in touch. So enough about how we face; it’s your call.

3.

I don’t know if traveling west is into the future and east to the past or now. One might put off death, the other wear it well.

4.

How many deaths, or near-deaths, and how many almostlives. Blocks away, the deadliest part of Tidewater, but here, a tentative recovery. I don’t know what is gentrification and what is wishful thinking, but if I walked there again with you—the thought alone makes me picture catching my breath on a streetbench. That’s what a past will do to you.

5.

If you maintain an internal life all your life, you will be troubled and awed by such things. You will have the sense of the isolated everyday marvel, as if clinging to the bottom of a swimming pool, looking up at the sun wobbling far, far beyond.

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6.

Wind might rise to your tongue, or waves slap the hull, especially if you look straight down over the rail, and if you hold your mind just right, the temporal surfaces and slips everywhere in little pyramids and pits.

7.

Let me put on my glasses so I can hear you better. Let me sit around a table with strangers and share strangeness, let me stand up straight home right this second place finish.

8.

Story up, and question me a listen. Store this tell before bedtime, ever-after my close-ups. Stare me dawn, blow me downside, the mouth of the port wavering river, Elizabeth’s voice, rippling in winter wind, shanked if your head isn’t just so.

9.

From one downtown to another, we leaned on the rail, smoked, had hot chocolate. I can still feel the ferry’s heave, but have no memory of other passengers or of the return trip, only going to and being in a place I’d never gone or been. Can you fill it?

10.

Answer me when I’m speaking to you. Amberly Road bike spokes soft-clicking cycle of tongue-tussle. Touch me in the night-time, in this night-time right here. Cupping my hand to my ear helps collect the sound.

11.

The other downtown is all but vacant though shoplights glimmer on cobblestones. But they’re not cobblestones; that’s just romance.

Turns out the patterns have plain names anyway: diagonal basket weave, herringbone, fishscale, radial, pinwheel, inlays, running bond.

That’s what a past is: a darkshining dream, empty but for you, and you, and you.

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Anni Wilson

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Flood Laura McCoy I feel most myself when I am standing on a rock in the middle of a swollen kill.

My ears ring alive with the water.

To keep my blood from cooling and the scab from forming I bring home stones from the bank.

But when I touch their veins— no water left.

I build to guide me room

So

cairns from to thought.

Like water to earth.

It is the river that throbs.

My blood, I only borrow.

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Marcia Wolfson Ray

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Span Laura McCoy you see there the three willows on the island in the river their shapes change as you walk by the second one Lachesis does she know who she measures for who someone starts as who they end as is it Clotho who intuits when to weave lives barely held together or thick and knotted does Atropos cut the saddest

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the shortest is there something

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we are spared but then what good is cutting the thread if it’s already been measured couldn’t the thread just end at its end are there heaps of our lives twitching at their feet is that why we created the shearer is it the injustice we feel at having to die then make it violent violence always lends meaning to things we don’t understand

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Thunder Carol Ellis The dogs bark. The gods are angry say those who believe in gods—the gods are always angry—or out in the back alley by the dumpster—smoking a cigarette—or making themselves terribly wealthy—which I have successfully avoided doing—but the thunder still pounds their various drums in the clouds. I watch for rain from my bedroom window— try to calm the dogs—the next-door neighbor managed to prune her lilac bush into a few clipped branches—I wonder about spring—whether that lilac is too broken to receive it—wonder whether I am too broken to take next spring into my zones of awareness. Aware of more thunder. I let the rush of birds rise and settle. The weeds of life overtake my yard—the earth in the middle of a year—I go along—but see autumn leaves—my mother’s favorite song—want to mark the time as changed—then rush me past those flowers that used to stop me—long enough to say beautiful—among all this truth—the insertion of beauty into the monologue of truth—asserting appearance—not reality—the reality of beauty is too quick to mention—easy to love—love uneasy around that older look I see in the mirror before I walk outside—search for gods.

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Forbes Graham

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The Half-Life of Everything Paul Freidinger

Every morning in France men in hazmat suits load barrels of plutonium onto trains headed to Siberia where set in fields, they stand above ground, toxic terracotta soldiers in formation behind a chain-link fence.

Workers in pastures watch as the trains pass; the cars clank over the iron rails like an EKG, and contrary to superstition, they do not glow but rather subdue the light into a dull, shadowless repetition, the lead that seals them sensing its limits as it wears away in geologic time, the half-life of everything splitting our time on earth.

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Anni Wilson

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In the month of March, my mood thickens like the March mud finally infused with last fall’s newly dead tamped down by cold fingers of rain.

Anticipation draws sweat from the soil;

From the mulch pit, the stink of rich compost

teases beds of flowering

bulbs. Slowly, by means of accumulation and decay,

the pit makes rich soil from rank waste,

feeds formal gardens and vegetable plots,

wild vines that strangle, and nettles that sting.

In the mornings, fat dew drop still manage

to cling onto the crabgrass, before they’re spent

by the rising sun, and in their evaporating moment, shine

in the blades’ curled mouths like pearls.

Not so the wetness collected in the mulch pit: it gets

no sun to turn it into crystal; but its moment of color beams

longer – at the ends of azalea stems

and hibiscus branches, of loquat sprays and late

blooming creepers – beams longer without fear of evaporation...

But, wait: that comes later. First comes the accumulation of rot spread even or mixed

into the earth. My mood thickens this month, mulched by my own sickness, and by memories of the friends this month made mulch.

Lord, I’m still waiting for the seeds they feed to sprout.

Mulch Chris Astwood

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In the month of March, my blood quickens with the crackle of seeds split underground by the heads of new shoots. Maybe the mind needs mulching over and again,

like a garden, so as to not spoil

its fertility. More likely the mind is a mulch pit, tossed

whatever shit, and expected to break it down

slowly, by means of accumulation and decay,

to make feelings and opinions, to make wisdom and taste –

all the while containing and concealing the rot

that feeds everything.

No matter, then, hard times or sadness: The damage

done, the dead cells strewn over my mind, will make it more potent

given time. I’ll spread my layers of finely ground nightmares mixed with rotten fantasies of girls

over my allotment’s set

of potential seedlings – watch them poke from the debris

well nourished, hungry for more dead.

Maybe all problems,

everyone’s, are mulch made and allowed to accumulate

according to their needs for fertilization.

Seeds fed well enough to burst into shoots

are luckier than most seeds, luckier than the mulch pit—

and you, over whom I spread my mind’s mulch

today, are luckier than I. But your blooms are temporary,

and when they go brown they’ll make good mulch.

Still, I’m waiting for my seeds to push some color out.

Curtis Anthony Bozif

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Hair Poem #2 Holly Day I put my finger in the bathroom drain and a few strands of long, blond hair came loose when I pulled. It was my hair, the way it looked before chemo took it all away.

I wrapped the thin, golden strands around my fingers held my hand up to the light. They were perfect no gray, no split ends, as if they had known I was going to lose it all and fell out voluntarily, before the hospital so I could have one last look.

I pressed the strands to my scalp and held them there, willing them to take root and spread grow thick and lustrous like a shampoo model’s hair like the curly blond wig hanging from the bathroom door like I have when I close my eyes and pretend I’m not sick.

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About Coyotes Christopher Porcaro

Every evening<In deep frost<When windows turn From gold to strobing blue<And mist waits silently Under the street lamp<You watch two coyotes Moving through shadow brushed avenues<In darkness You see their eyes<Calm beneath ecdysis One time you heard them kill<A cat behind the cars It sounded like<A Push Spark Spinner Or a quick plastic zip-tie<Running through plastic Running through instinct<Running through vibration Through vibration<Through tissue<Through the cars And the trash cans<And you know they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see you On the other side of the lamp<So you walk back home But the coyotes follow you there one night<In winter When the atmosphere holds light<They always see you Better in compact Darkness<Surrounding the fading limit Of the street lamp<You can only see<Their energy-spun contours On the black street<But they are clear<Azure mist around space They crouch<Stalking<Each quick step you take back In the dim expanse<Distantly glowing<You see Homeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Light

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You see them<Growing into form<With steady illumination The Coyotes of Ritual appear<You close the door Looking through the gilded window<They sit Outside You can see the grey fur<Expanding<With each ribbed breath Between every bone bar<A heart beat in double time They are here<Eyes without conflict<Like tired infants With brown blood<Stained around their mouths Are you hungry<You ask from the Other Side Then you walk away<From the coyotes<From the Night To a room with a wardrobe<That keeps a rifle<You were given A long time ago<Still wrapped in newspaper<From the day Chessman sentenced to death<You unwrap the print Find the weapon<The box of fertile shells<And with Duty With Guilt Feed the gun DeathLife<And walk back to the Night To the coyotes on the Other Side<You open the door They are still<On their back legs<Looking up With three shots<You unbind them<Leaving their bodies Outside So when they return<They will know where Home is

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Contributors CHRIS ASTWOOD is a Bermudian poet currently living and studying in the United Kingdom, where he is a PhD candidate in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of East Anglia. His poetry and prose have appeared in numerous publications, including World Literature Today, Lighthouse, and Rialto.

SHAY BOISVERT is a junior at Saint Francis University in Loretto, Pennsylvania. She is majoring in English Literature and Philosophy and minoring in French Cultural Studies and Communication. She was inspired to become a writer after reading the Harry Potter novels at age eight and began writing in high school. Besides writing short stories, she is now an editor for her school’s literary journal, Tapestries. Her other passion is photography which she does to document the moments in her life that take her breath away. Currently she is studying abroad in the south of France while working on her first novel.

CURTIS ANTHONY BOZIF was born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1982. He studied painting and drawing at the Kansas City Art Institute, graduating with a BFA 2006. He went on to earn his MFA from the Department of Art Theory & Practice at Northwestern University in 2008. His work has been exhibited nationally and internationally. He currently resides in Chicago, Illinois where he keeps a studio.

JANET CANNON’s poems have been published in Berkeley Poetry Review (University of California), Midwest Quarterly (Pittsburgh State University), and G.W. Review (George Washington University)—among many other literary journals. She is the author of three published chapbooks Day Laborers (Plan B Press), The Last Night in New York (Homeward Press), and Percipience (Cross Cut Saw Press). Janet has read her poems/performed via singing the spoken word all over the United States. She is a graduate of the University of Iowa.

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ROB COOK’s latest books are Blueprints for a Genocide (Spuyten Duyvil, 2012), Empire in the Shade of a Grass Blade (Bitter Oleander Press, 2013), The Undermining of the Democratic Club (Spuyten Duyvil, 2014), and Last Window in the Punk Hotel (Rain Mountain Press, 2017). Work has appeared/will appear in Caliban, Quiet Lunch, Laurel Review, Epiphany, Lunch Ticket, Interim, Thrice Fiction, Birmingham Poetry Review, Brasilia Review, Two Thirds North, Natural Bridge, Notre Dame Review, Hotel Amerika, Tampa Review, Verse, Antioch Review, etc. He is currently working on a novella.

HOLLY DAY’s poetry has recently appeared in Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections, A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing) will be out mid-2018, with The Yellow Dot of a Daisy already out on Alien Buddha Press.

EDWARD DERBY’s short film Wishbone (WishboneShort.com) won best Comedic Short and Best Actress in a Short from the 2017 Oregon Independent Film Festival. Recent publications include poems in American Chordata, and Rattle, and poetry reviews on TheRumpus.net.

CAROL ELLIS was born in Detroit, Michigan and lives in Portland, Oregon.

She’s been around the academic block with her PhD in English from the University of Iowa. She is the author of two chapbooks: HELLO (Two Plum Press, 2018) and I Want A Job (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her poems and essays are or will be published in anthologies and journals including ZYZZYVA, Comstock Review, Cincinnati Review, Saranac Review, and Cider Press Review. In 2015 she spent time in Cuba writing a book and giving readings.

ANDY FOGLE has five chapbooks of poetry, with poems, translations, memoir, interviews, criticism, and educational research in Image, Mid-American Review, Blackbird, South Dakota Review, Natural Bridge, Writer’s Chronicle, Teachers & Writers Collaborative, English Journal, Gargoyle, and elsewhere. He lives in upstate New York, teaching high school and working on a PhD in Education.

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PAUL FREIDINGER is a poet residing in Edisto Beach, South Carolina, where, he can attest, the ocean is rising. He has published over 200 poems in journals from around the United States and has poems recently published or forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Confrontation, Florida Review, Folio, Grist, Isthmus, Kentucky Review, Pacific Review, Portland Review, Potomac Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Roanoke Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, South Carolina Review, South Dakota Review, and Triggerfish Critical Review.

FORBES GRAHAM (b. 1977) is a self-taught artist, musician, and composer living and working in Boston, Massachusetts. His interests and influences include mathematics, photography, and improvisational music. His work is an exploration of place, nostalgia, recontextualization, and the ways in which we construct and find meaning.

LEIGH HERRICK is an award-winning poet and writer who began taking photos out of love and deep concern for nature. Her black and whites most often have to do with a certain quality of light. Previous publication credits for some of her abstract photos and vispo include Otoliths and Mad Hatterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Review. For additional info, visit LeighHerrick.com.

Originally from Houston, Texas, A.R. MARTIN navigates aimlessly through the Las Vegas desert with her two cats. Her work has appeared in Helen Literary Magazine, Yes Poetry, Hothouse Literary Journal, and Echo Literary Magazine.

LAURA McCOY lives on the Rensselaer Plateau in east-central New York State.

Her poems have been recently published or are forthcoming in Fourteen Hills, Portland Review, and South Dakota Review, among others. She is a graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts.

CHRISTOPHER PORCARO lives in Los Angeles, where he writes. His first collection of poetry, Moveable Parts, will be released in 2019.

REBECCA PYLE long ago lived for a year as a child in Virginia (McLean) and is an artist and writer. Her work appears in dozens of art/lit journals, including, lately, Poor Yorick, Map Literary, New England Review, Emerson Review, and Bangalore Review. Her first chapbook, The Underwater American Songbook, is soon to appear in Underwater New York. She lives now between the Great Salt Lake and the gorgeous old mountain mining town where the Sundance Film Festival takes place every winter. Please visit RebeccaPyleArtist.com.

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MARCIA WOLFSON RAY was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland. She received her BFA from Maryland Institute College of Art. In 1993 she received a fellowship to attended the Mount Royal School of Painting at the Maryland Institute College of Art where she received her MFA. Her work has been exhibited at the University of Connecticut, Loyola College, the Baltimore Museum of Art, the Chrysler Museum, University of Maryland, Maryland Art Place, Stevenson University, and the Walters Art Museum, among other venues. The inspiration for her art comes from nature, its forms, rhythms and patterns. She collects most of the materials for her art herself, from as varied locations as vacant city lots in Baltimore and the marshes of the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

M. RUSSEK is currently a student at the University of West Florida and has been featured in Meat for Tea Review, Typishly, Sonder Midwest, Montana Mouthful, and Third Street Writers. There is always opportunity for expressing art and M. is an avid artist for many mediums (drawings, writings, photography). Founder of This: A Review and former Senior Poetry Editor at Missing Slate.

MATTHEW J. SPIRENG’s full-length books are What Focus Is and Out of Body, which won the 2004 Bluestem Poetry Award. He is also the author of five chapbooks and an eight-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

HENRY STANTON is a painter and writer living in Ellicott City, Maryland. His paintings, fiction, and poetry appear in 2River, A3 Review, Avatar, Baltimore City Paper, Baltimore Sun Magazine, Pindeldyboz, Salt & Syntax, SmokeLong Quarterly, Word Riot, and Write Launch among other publications and galleries. His poetry was selected for the A3 Review Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the Eyewear 9th Fortnight Prize for Poetry. His fiction received an Honorable Mention acceptance for the Salt & Syntax Fiction Contest.

For tïrïngō, who so often finds herself at a loss for the right words at any given moment, poetry is a godsend. She has been writing for ten years of happiness and agony, growing into the protagonist of her own story.

ANNI WILSON is a printmaker working in linoleum. Her current project is a set of ninety linocuts illustrating Elizabethan comedies, versified by collaborator Craig Kurtz (antickcomedies.blogspot.com/). Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Folio, Gigantic Sequins, and Metonym, and on the cover of Emerson Review and Portland Review. She resides at Twin Oaks Intentional Community in Virginia.

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