A native of Brooklyn, Sheila Meltzer earned a PhD in linguistics from the CUNY Graduate Center, turned, and ran. She’s tried life in New Orleans, rural Vermont, and Catalan Spain. She now lives in Berkeley, hunts software bugs for a living, and dances, for joy. In weekly writing workshops she’s begun coaxing out a life’s worth of buried treasure. Her loot has appeared or will soon be revealed in The Citron Review, Lowestoft Chronicle, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and rkvry.
More from The Journal
I have fallen in love with winter, /
with the day that ends at 3:45 in the afternoon. //
with the man striding along the path grasping /
a pink plastic bag that glows incandescent /
although it only contains dish soap /
and the cat food he carries home after work …
...you wonder again about the soul, /
Where it hides, where it ventures. /
There's always one you have to bring to oblivion...
I wanted to be gray-faced /
and hated by the Yankees /
in the suburbs past Carleton.
Once he’d made the long, impetuous trip, /
once we were there, evening air billowing my skirt /
over the Pacific, surf sweeping like brushes over drums, /
I knew we’d marry.
By Kris Spencer
I lived by a river with tides unresolved /
Under the house a sewer under a wooden board it ran /
Sometimes a tapping sometimes a hum in the night like a motor
By Christopher Chambers
and I dream of a young woman from Prague /
standing beside a red motorcycle as if so much /
depended upon it...
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