.:ELECTRIC VELOCIPEDE:. Poetry

Drawing a finger over the looking glass;
Ripples play across the surface, flow towards the frame,
fringed in bronze, chipped and faded.
In another world beyond the glass sits a little girl.

Some days it rained, and then the mirror would leak
and water dripped out through the framing
leaving a small shimmering puddle below.
Yet beyond the glass a little girl sits.

Some nights, if a fall moon formed,
the pale white light would shine through onto the wall casting shapes
as shadows danced upon the glass.
Yet beyond the glass a little girl sits.

This world is not reachable
for the mirror will not open.
Sitting in awe watching all that gently changes;
and the one thing that does not; the little glass girl.

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Nine Things about Oracles by Shira Lipkin

1.
Oracles never go off-duty.
The gods’ voices don’t punch a clock,
don’t take coffee breaks,
don’t go home at five.
to leave you reeling, dizzy,
grateful.
No, the gods bleed through at
the most inopportune of times—
smoke break at the bus stop,
suddenly the falling ash
and swirling smoke
deliver a message sure as entrails,
and the oracle is swept away.

2.
They didn’t ask for this—
in some cases, didn’t want it.
The gods are wary of too-willing nymphs these days.
So they force their way through pretty girls
in altered states—
intoxication, ecstasy,
true love, music.
These are not god-seeking girls.
These are girls who wanted something else.

3.
They’re not all girls—
most gods prefer girls
as their mouthpieces,
citing artistic reasons,
tradition.
Every once in a while,
there is a boy,
tap-tapping his Tarot
or spilling out his I Ching.

4.
Oracles see pattern in everything.
Were the gods to ride them
for just a little longer,
we’d solve quantum physics,
have a Theory of Everything.

5.
They cannot lie.
Be careful what you ask—
the answer may cut you.
It’s not her fault.
She’d cushion the blow if she could—
she is as helpless as you,
more so,
truth pouring out
in a great dark wave.

6.
They don’t always work out of caves, these days,
but they like dark places,
small,
the better to hold them close when the telling is done.

7.
They do not have families.
Think of the oracle at home,
apron-clad, cookie-baking;
think of her seeing the future
of her husband, her child.
There are things they don’t want to know.
The oracles hang out in darkened clubs,
picking up partners
who are sure to be gone in the morning,
before any awkward prophesy.

8.
They don’t charge money.
Some blood,
some hope,
a measure of your belief in logic
(because this should not be possible,
not in your world—
this oracle opening,
this thing peering through,
too vast to be contained,
comprised of nothing but Truth
which chills to the bone—
makes you want to run, but too late—
once asked, the question
will be answered.)
You will bring gifts, after.
Coffee. Bread. Sacrifices.

9.
It never goes away,
channel never really closes.
I can probe it like a sore tooth,
this place in me where answers come from.
It has been so long.
Let me tell you a story.

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South of the Woods by Amy Mackiewicz

A young girl
Wearing a simple white dress
Draped with cobwebs—
Hair tied with a simple white ribbon,
Her complexion ashen as the gown she wore—
Stared inertly out a crack in the attic window
of a house long deserted.
Staring at the woods which loomed east
of the small town of Ashburton.
From the room were this young girl rested,
Came the sound of struggle
as a single black crow
fought towards freedom;
furiously flapping at the cracks in the shutters
until a board fell loose
with a gap wide enough for his body to fly through.
At this, the girl’s head bowed slightly,
Her eyes settled upon the bird
whom had escaped his cage.
And then he fell.
And as his body hit the ground below,
She turned her eyes again upon the
Heavy trees which loomed to the east.
And the crow’s lifeless body lay limp
within the quagmire that surrounded
the house which stood south of the woods
to the small town of Ashburton.

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Among a Million Flowers by Amy Mackiewicz

The wounds of the farm were clearer each year.
The stream to the right of the farm,
once overflowing with trout,
was now dormant,
nothing more than sludge.
Apple trees lined the left,
one time, each had been covered in baby pink blossoms,
Row upon row for as far as the eye could see.
But she could only imagine the fallen,
rotting trees to have been so alive.
She stood in utter silence.
Nothing sounded but the rustling
of dry wheat whispering in the wind.
She could not remember a time she had stood amongst
a harvest, full and plentiful.
For as long as she had been alive
all that surrounded her had been dead.
So on the tenth day, of the ninetieth year
she stood once more between the
dry corpses of a million flowers,
and she collapsed.
The beating of her heart slowed,
her breathing tensed
and as her pale blue eyes glazed over
her head turned towards the heavens one last time.
And the sky began to bleed.

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The Price of Perfection by Amy Mackiewicz

Rain would fall around her,
cascading down the stone steps
forming a translucent puddle at her feet.
Yet she would always remain dry,
Unaware of even the smallest trickle.

Dusk would slowly approach,
creeping up the paved path
devouring first her toes, swiftly climbing her body.
Yet she would remain numb,
Unaware of the chill the night may bestow upon her.

Winds howled furiously,
ruining the cotton white cobwebs
that sat either side of her fragile face.
Yet she would remain still,
Unaware of the webs whipping her ivory complexion.

For she could not feel the rain beading her marble skin.
She could not feel the cool night’s breeze brushing her body
Nor the winds fierce cries as it streamed by her ear.
For she was no more than a flawless statue,
Her perfection, no less.