Chani Zwibel is the author of Cave Dreams to Star Portals. She is an associate editor with Madness Muse Press. She is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, who was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia, with her husband and their dog. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming. WHAT GETS LOST Lost Atlantis leans in rubble, pillars broken, tombs, and wreckage. Weary mermaids lay their brows on marble remnants. Oysters encase skulls in pearl. Pokémon play cards with children. Baseball stadiums serve beer. Wizards battle indiscretions, passing cars through red lights screeching. All the debts have been forgiven, except student loans are due. Primeval forests cut for timber give their life’s blood to be boards, Stacked and laid in dining room floors, Where the rich hold lavish parties, Spilling wine and drinking more. Damn the ruling class forever; never mind, see that blue sky? Marbles tumble from her pockets, slip down anthills, race the sun. You and I and all we know here Caught gasping as the waters rise. GUINEA PIG Soft Fuzzy Guinea Pig Burrows Under Green Plastic Castle. Queen Peggy of the timothy hay, Although a furry, fluffy ball she is, Beware of her sharp teeth. What incisors nab the carrot Can also nip the thumb. EXPAND It is November and the wind sneaks around the house like a thief. Grey fall day full of rain and cold, inches its way toward Thanksgiving with no great hurry or pleasure. No one answers their phones. I feel I may not really exist except in this little house, wrapped in a warm fuzzy bathrobe with my hair in a towel. I want to crawl inside this Victoria’s Secret velour pants-and-hoodie set and hibernate there all winter. I wait for the ray of golden sunshine, but today I think all I’m getting is Netflix and coffee, and the warm caress of the heating pad for comfort. Eat sadness like a bag of potato chips, crunchy, salty, flat. The sound of the crinkly bag brings the dog. She wants to snack on some sadness, too. See how delicious the juices of pain become? Gently cradling the still warm but not warm enough coffee pot, I pour old the old from the early morning, which I slept through and put in clean water to make another brew. I don’t sleep well. I want only solace, but night is a painful birth if you struggle. The best ideas and the worst thoughts always hit me just as the back of my skull sinks wearily into the pillow. The one time when I am alone with my thoughts and silence, stillness, the husband, and the dog softly breathing in their sleep, warm lumps in the dark room. CONTRACT The grey clouds overhead manifest of my half-assed attempts to curse my enemies with lightning strike. I drive to Wendy’s on the hunt for the fattest burger I can find. In stained sweat pants and dirty tee-shirt, hair matted and frizzed, I looked upon the world bleakly, eyes squinted, my “depression scowl”. The beer at home washes down the greasy cheese and fries while watching “The Crow” and laughing, nothing like the nostalgia of electric tape and goth makeup of the late 1990’s, a golden age I never realized was glittering. Destiny waits outside, beyond the begonias. I understand intellectually the importance of self-care, brushing hair and shaving legs, applying mustard rub to a congested chest, and afterward the band aids on the cuts where the razor slipped, antibacterial ointment and another band aid on the blister where the fancy shoe (albeit sensible flats) rubbed, but I have not been careful with myself lately; bruised my hand opening the patio umbrella, dropped my phone and put a crack in the screen, I have strange thoughts: Hundreds of rusty razor blades hiding in piles behind the bathroom mirrors of these old houses, dropped through the slit and dumped into the wall, forgotten, shaved many a stubbly face on a 50’s husband, trying to look his sharpest. And now I leave hundreds of cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol and what foundation I used them to remove. We all have wastes and wastelands. FALL ROSES The Spirit of Autumn
takes down leaves and Autumn leaves She leaves us She leaves Whispers The Spirit of Autumn Wanders, wanders, Dresses herself in Grey and mushroom spore Hear the trees disrobing Slip after silk slip
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