Page 146

Page 146  (Inspired by Jose Saramago’s, “All the Names”)

By: Mark Sutherland

The narrow corridor

formed: a corridor,

narrow minded. This corridor,

stretches—

wall to wall portraits of cranial

landscape. Psychological nature…

vertigo, insomnia, suffered

violent attack of claustrophobia:

enclosed, suffocating, darkness does

not allow him to perceive

limits of space. He can

see the familiar, calming

mass of papers. Shrug off

disquieting feeling of presence

surrounding, terror of hidden,

unknown. End

of corridor, face-to-face

with the wall. He stopped

being, now he is

very young—

a child who hates

sleep. Arms out,

touching skull bones

under pressure inside,

looking out.

la cicatriz

La Cicatriz

Oppression never shows

her teeth before she gnaws your last

decade away. See how your trust drips

from clever fangs finding your aorta of youth.

Her shovels are the Earth’s pencil scratching

        m e   t a l             on           m i n e   r a l,

rewriting crust you can’t see from space

but still, she has man by the throat.

If you drew me, draw me as close as I to you—

I would dimple press into the flesh

of ground. Make me a crater,

I’m your depression.

A low shadow from a

rainless cloud overhead, constant—

friend.

Dry eyes wash everything We

but wind ruminates and you find

 new ways to blow kisses

of kicks and scratch out my ears

with the manipulation of innocence.

These dust floods are my dear

Pegasus losing his footing. We’re

hoofing it,

these souls of mine.

Dig in, dig in, dig in—

Move some earth around

and all that inward diggin’ leaves scars

no one sees. Found my worth in writing

la cicatriz. 

MAGIC LANTERN MAGAZINE - SPRING 2014 Issue

Magic Lantern Magazine - click to see recently published work

Image from MAGIC LANTERN : http://magiclanternmag.wordpress.com/2014/04/22/spring2014/

The Great Ray That Got Away

The Great Ray That Got Away

Only you and the fish are smiling. The salmon

since he got away, today and grandpa,

you got some good looks before the final splash.

I've heard the story so many times—

skunk trips to the sea, early

to bed, to rise, sounds wise

until I’m five hours off shore, still broke,

fishing for kings with my jack-

of-all-trades Great Grandpa Ray.

Though, we've never been salmon fishing before

but I continue to look like you. Arms

extended, still posing for pictures

from a childhood never taken, stolen

memories— with your cigars hooked in cartilage,

lines set for cancer, me reeling as fast

as I could to grow big enough for the boat

so dad and you would pack me in the cooler.

I was awake then, listening and dreaming,

when men were rising with the dawn

and this son only a man long after

your sun set; Grandpa you were

this great. My Great Grandpa Ray gone,

only pretend trips to take to the big lake,

Dad’s done you proud and whenever

there’s a skunk in the boat

after trolling for too long, five more minutes, I’ll

think at least you didn't miss this—

We miss you, the one that got away. No

he wasn't as big as your tales,

you were this big and got away too soon. 

"Big Fish" mixed media art by: Thomas Massey