The Literary Magazine of the Osterhout Free Library
There Aren’t Any Ducks in the Duck Pond,
Jonathan Greenhause
but that’s OK because there’s no God either,
so the lack of ducks
in a pond named after them
shouldn’t be cause for concern, this absent divinity
allowing us to believe in other things, like science
or perhaps ourselves;
& if we try hard enough,
we can put the ducks back into the duck pond,
put the water back into water, remove Continue reading “Jonathan Greenhause, Spring•Summer 2017”
Miners
Joe Baumann
They set you down in an old dentist’s chair, yellow stuffing clumping around the strips of duct tape that catch on the holes in your jeans. Then they apply blue jelly, cold and clammy, to your temples, massaging it against your skin with two fingers each. Your hair has already been buzzed short so the gloppy mess won’t muss into anything. It is, apparently, impossible to wash out. While they fiddle with their instruments—just out of your periphery, but you can hear something whirring that fills your mouth with a metallic taste, saliva bunching behind your wisdom Continue reading “Joe Baumann, Spring•Summer 2017”
Coming Back to Bukowski
Erin L. Delaney
Dispirited, I flip through piles of books
looking for something new,
something to bring on some fire.
Instead I stare down Bukowski.
We’ve been introduced before.
I open Dog from Hell’s pages,
readjust the glue,
recover the nonstick binding.
He provokes me,
pours me a glass
of words,
and this drink ignites
my pen to paper—
a drunken admission
a bare-handed back alley boxing match Continue reading “Erin L. Delaney, Spring•Summer 2017”
Sunrise Psalm
Craig W. Steele
“Dawn was breaking over the horizon,
shell pink and faintly gold…”
—J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Dawn’s light chases Ephialtes’
shadows back into their secret
caves, dispersing them about my
yard, beyond the fence and down the
road in all directions. Glowing
pink in every puddle where the
gold-eyed Eos bathes her face, it
burnishes the dewy leaves and
grass until they’re glinting like fine
crystal, brightening my way today.
Sound Shadows
Marjon van Bruggen
Do you hear
the sound below the sound
of our footsteps?
The wiry black whine
of bluebottles sleeping
or the tiny sudden shock
as thorns emerge on the rose
subtle things,
I tiptoe in its shadows and listen—
the goldfish discussing
the coming contest
the delicate slurp
of drinking fireflies
and the dancing dust
in the center of sunflowers,
against the glint of granite. Continue reading “Marjon van Bruggen, Spring•Summer 2017”
Word Fountain 