something like a love-song lurched across the room
and my heart was less than a dried-up crust of bread
the night pavement moving me far
from any place I could call home sweet hotel
oh the mexican belly dancers crying nada nada
oh the feisty mice with delicate feet and
the black wind cold as a hearse
advertising allows you to choose said the billboard
in god we trust said the money in the pocket
of the three-fingered man asking hopefully
can I buy you a drink honey.
About the author
Janice D. Soderling has published poems, prose and translations in hundreds of journals and anthologies. She became a time traveler via her latest collection,… Read the full bio
Issue 11 · January 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
By Robert McDonald
I touch my wallet in my front pocket, I could do it, purchase // them all, leave the overflowing suitcase on a bus stop bench/
for you, oh stranger, you oh person or persons unknown ...
down a washboard roadside through an old forest, /
departing the copse of a quiet village, /
we spy a youth dangling protein by the tail,
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen /
from society's hands.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose