Issue 2.1 JC Bouchard

Forked Roads by John Francis Istel
“How many candles do you see? Mother? How many? Can you see how many? Sit up.

Waking by Karin C. Davidson
“‘Sleep, sleep, sleep,’ my mother says. But I cannot help thinking about waking the next morning.”

The Box by Greg Bottoms
“Danny Glover—a fourteen-year-old white kid from Smithfield, Virginia, not the actor from…”

Form-Fall by Marco Wilkinson
“A tree evaporates into the universe and falls back to earth: timber to paper to coffee cup to compost to dirt.”

Swept by Emily Vizzo
“Startling, this body-bump of asterisks finding its way…

Sea Lion by Emily Vizzo
“The stink of him came to me first, a salty hit of kelp…

Mario’s Grocery Has No Cameras by Chris Mink
“In lane twelve a young mother wearing…

During the Tornado, I’m Thinking of Stars by Sara Henning
“They’re calling them sisters, funnels grafted…

The Dead Wait on the Living to Go on Living by Kim Garcia
“The chairs wide-mouthed and silent in each others’ presence…

Mountain Aubade by Kim Garcia
“Inside a blue-cupped palm, yellow tipped mountain, wild dogwood, pine…

Mending by Ruth Foley
“For once, I am not thinking of a place…”

Doubt is the angel of our time by Ruth Foley
“Of any time, I’d wager—any movement…

Cleansing Flights by Ruth Foley
“The temporary unfurling of the rhododendron…

Pitcher by Will Cordeiro
“I’m such a flirt…

Wild Horse / Wild Deer by John Casteen
“Deep beneath the night, its lidded vault of stars…”

Figure by John Casteen
“As in, cuts an elegant…”

I Saw You by JC Bouchard
“I saw you on the roundabout…”

JC Bouchard

I Saw You


I saw you on the roundabout        a burden’s squirm

an apple perched on the peak of           a hip bone

in the garbage heap.                     You did not catch my eye


but I caught your cold

cut out of the eye of your snake’s

skin. Jacket crumbled on a chair.          If scarves are


what make you swoon                                         look at my open palms.


I said I would

smash the ukulele compressed in the folds of                           a moleskin.

   I saw you


cross out the last corpse in a group of four sticks                     in the fog.

Your greasy breath on the mirror.                                What?

Don’t look at my hands they are too small


even for the ashtray.            I came here for you.                      God

you looked like a mountain range                    conquered by fear.

I caught your eyes in a fish bowl                       a stereo stuffed in a garbage bin


a bee caught under your tongue.                                     Humming

a dead horse in the bends of your elbows.

          Let’s obsess a little.



Trapped you in a stage light      my memory is the crowbar.

Saw you on a flowerbed                        keeping signature

with lightning bolts.                                           I had a dream


we would meet sometime soon                                     but never like this.

Buried you in my chest as if closeness             makes the storm’s

night wilting branches in a storm.                                   What?


You caught my eyes and I caught you                            a vixen ensnared

in a stage curtain.                   Help me keep that

collage of you scraping your knees                                              on the bottom


of the woodshed.                                  The scarf is long now.

I’ll see you tomorrow                 just give me one chance to burn

in winter’s discarded scraps.


Print Friendly, PDF & Email