Sheila Squillante

THE FOURTH WAVE KISSING PARTY Let’s not invite the whole class; let’s pretend that we are the bosses of the fourth wave. [The Fourth Wave, JoyceAnn McManus would say. In all caps, she would say] and when she is done being the boss of the way words will appear, we’ll kick JoyceAnn out of the waves. When we play pretend, we’ve got on cowboy hats and eucalyptus panties—refreshing!—and go off into the sunset every evening and to the disco every night. [That would be cowgirl hat or cowwoman hat JoyceAnn McManus would say and bucking broncos and steers and the dull-eyed cows she would say not noticing that girl and woman have been left behind for altogether new pronouns JoyceAnn McManus wrings and wrings and wrings her hands] and we wouldn’t have time for those words we’d opt out of consensus we’d just leave her behind so much on speed [...]

________________________________________________________________ Jill McKenna Reed is a poet, writing instructor, and beekeeper living in Portland, Oregon. She is co-editor of “Winged: New Writing on Bees,” an anthology of modern literary writing, forthcoming in October of 2014. Jill earned her MFA in Creative Writing Poetry at Portland State University. She is a native of the Chicago area.

The Difficult Drama of Nature How cool the air above the horizon—the sky lights up As you take your leave. And this leaving feels severe It feels the way trees look as they clutch rough edges of land All the while being shaped by a persistent wind. I can be traced by satellite. Here is my house on a virtual map But what of your soul? What of this next-phase? I might be the tree clawing to stay. Also, you might be the wind. The moon pulls these thoughts across a barren sea named Desert. You dwelled here for a time with your lens—finding the synesthesia In the mindlessness of the mesquite. What did I forget To tell you before you splintered from your body So fraught and pale—so tired of the process of breath? You should know that your intended stillness Gave way to the most difficult shifts of [...]

The Flight Home En Route to Louisville Remember the laundry that hangs on bamboo fences, on the edges of corrugated tin, on the rafters next to fishing nets that clump together and billow like 18th-century petticoats. Remember the blue jeans, the yellow t-shirts, the thick-hooded sweatshirts. Remember the slender brown legs that slide into the jeans, the fat lips of the toddler who sat on your lap, the hands of the man who, while working his day job as a security guard in front of an ATM, tied the knots that made the nets. Remember the brown waters of the Mekong, the Nam Khong, the Nam Song, the heavy rains in the afternoon, the early morning mist. Remember the clear rising song of a gibbon family at dawn. Remember the Chinese rock music. The gristle and fat in the meat. Even remember the mosquitos and salmonella. Remember how to say, [...]