"Cure Me" by Anna Martin
"Cotard in the Summertime" by John Leonard
Naked behind the black shrub, like how they found
your cousin from Michigan City--the one who had
that disease, where all she saw in the mirror was
her own face rotting. What to do? What to do,
when already, by the age of sixteen, a girl is convinced
she doesn’t exist? Here, we’d call that too much culture
and not enough Jesus. Drink a hot toddy and shoo the
crows away. “With my luck, I probably went to revival
with the boy who sold her the gun.” You turned from me,
took a sip of Eros, and I quietly forgot to disagree.
The black shrub is now a whale song, a lack of constellations.
I count the hours it takes you to redo each button,
the meadows of skin that lay between. Rocks cut my palms and
mark our trial with the day light of conviction, the blight of grass.
When you reach for my lips...I think I taste an imposter.
Five states away, at dusk, your father crumbles into his porch swing.
He sips Wild Turkey and lemonade in the warm goodbye of summer.
It’s already too late when he notices the plastic flamingos are
facing the wrong way. They mostly come out at night...mostly.
But we don’t know this yet. You rise gently, your hips erased.
The sky slides between us and we tell each other that one day
we’ll grow oranges in Alaska. A wild flower bloomed, and no one
took a picture. What’s here, is here almost all of the time,
like some foreign novel where the characters suffer
all the more for not suffering in English. I’ve lost track of days.
When I look up from my fever dream you’ve finished dressing.
You’re gone and I feel my pulse and I wonder,
do any of us make it home?
your cousin from Michigan City--the one who had
that disease, where all she saw in the mirror was
her own face rotting. What to do? What to do,
when already, by the age of sixteen, a girl is convinced
she doesn’t exist? Here, we’d call that too much culture
and not enough Jesus. Drink a hot toddy and shoo the
crows away. “With my luck, I probably went to revival
with the boy who sold her the gun.” You turned from me,
took a sip of Eros, and I quietly forgot to disagree.
The black shrub is now a whale song, a lack of constellations.
I count the hours it takes you to redo each button,
the meadows of skin that lay between. Rocks cut my palms and
mark our trial with the day light of conviction, the blight of grass.
When you reach for my lips...I think I taste an imposter.
Five states away, at dusk, your father crumbles into his porch swing.
He sips Wild Turkey and lemonade in the warm goodbye of summer.
It’s already too late when he notices the plastic flamingos are
facing the wrong way. They mostly come out at night...mostly.
But we don’t know this yet. You rise gently, your hips erased.
The sky slides between us and we tell each other that one day
we’ll grow oranges in Alaska. A wild flower bloomed, and no one
took a picture. What’s here, is here almost all of the time,
like some foreign novel where the characters suffer
all the more for not suffering in English. I’ve lost track of days.
When I look up from my fever dream you’ve finished dressing.
You’re gone and I feel my pulse and I wonder,
do any of us make it home?
John Leonard is a writer of fiction, poetry, and short essays. He received a BA in English from Indiana University South Bend where he minored in creative writing and is currently studying to receive his Masters. His previous works have appeared in Analecta, Tributaries, Twyckenham Notes, and The Jawline Review.
Anna Martin is a digital/traditional artist, writer and photographer based out of Saint Augustine, Florida. She is an avid explorer and much of her artwork is inspired by her travels and life experiences, and she strives to capture emotions and inspire others with her work. Her work has been previously exhibited in various galleries and museums, such as the Rosenberg Gallery and the Baltimore Museum of Art, and has also been published in various art magazines such as Grub Street and Plenilune Magazine. Anna is a freelance artist, and is always looking for new work and collaborative projects. Anna also frequently works under the pseudonym Vacantia, and more of her art can be found at her online gallery: http://www.vacantia.org.
