Charles Gabel

The Pasture

let my syntax be content

make it a method
of seeing you

let letters pull down sky more literally

puckering of a mouth
before speech becomes
a flower

blooming son
together with image


a word: I see Apollo wilt

is this a worthy emergency?

locate the pasture
locate the ink
pull it from my love

how do you hear me name you?

pronounce again

locate me





Eclogue: Desert Mass

I want to sing a mass
for how the sun husks
the earth and appears
as water

some sun spools on the dirt
candied to earth’s lap

I want the desert’s
breath on my wrists

now you—reach to touch me


I pull apart
as a ruin—birdrot settling
a landscape

a method to un-right
my inky hands naming winds
stuck to the harvest fit for these lands

I am tilling up the sun

for a drink

I am tilling up the sun to live

between the ink and

a real naked hand reaching
up my arm

I am more simple than the desert




After Virgil

I slice a blood blister into
my dream wooing the Orphic

how can I make us
a little closer in here?

vision inked out
on the cold

I have a hand

on the front of your hip it’s not
such a baroque tug

let me bathe the storm
leafing across
the plain
lolls around me

I will write the sky
this storm—
no more poems

salting Virgil

for what?

warm legs
spotty versions of nocturne

I paste together
around your shoulder
my language

bumbles and I count
so bad upon you—
            I’m sorry

your curve
rights me
like the dead use to

the water rill down my hand
to my pocket

what weather!

real naked smudge
on my skin here it is lit
up grass consoled

to me?

how close can we get in here?

a clot of Virgil
sewing up some

dusty blood into
the meadow clog
of flute music concussed
like us

around the poet, the wind
cuffs us

what ink settles like this
to know your naked feet?

it’s a place
to wrest back

from the meadow




Split Eclogue

mad wilting along the grass
forms lines between each of your ribs

the lyric drips a bruise
and the garden drips

back to me
I want you

to show me how
the coughs of flute music take

you up—and collapse
the letters lapsed into the deer hooves
it’s a touch

your hands into my collar
here, my hands lift

the dead from me
the dead from me—

collapse the eclogue
to splash a bruise

cored little melody
to touch with

a split gum
lulled back into my

breath, tucking a moon
into I




Eclogue for Beatrice

this dark is a ruin

for the dead to sing

a lung lengthened to hold you in it

now I can breathe

I can breathe back and my pasture

will find its borders

the blood in my feet knows its grass

dripping sleepy over the earth

a swollen tree grinding out

splinters for my palm

they prick a freshly dead poem

I can’t see you, but my blood

still turns to a fever        soft

a fever can still kill a poet

your soft fingers

can dot bruises on my back

I want to pull them off in chorus

I find it looped on your ribs

I find it in the grass, bleeding up

to touch me

memory’s soft tugs

on each of my teeth to singing

memory’s blood          the blood

making a rill down my hand

as weather might

warm lightning over the desert

rolling lulls before its holy song

imagining rain



Charles Gabel earned an MFA in Poetry from Boise State University; he
works at the Cincinnati Public Library

Shamala Gallagher

Midnight, Sober

(in the kitchen watching
the silk of dark wear itself




when I was nine
I once went
wrongly to a dance class
for children
who knew how
to dance



the teacher
pulled my mother



at that moment
I was leaping
and kicking,
believing myself
in subtle



teacher moved
the delicate
in her pale
craned neck





grown now,
to want
to articulate

is to love
to fail



Untitled (Away)


even if I am not loved here I’ll live here.
I do not want to be loved.

once you have it you want more,
that dark pulp berry,

fruit hawked at night by the river.

the street will not contain you,
once you start staring at windows.

I came to the city
hoping I would see only the city



and not myself, heat of all I turned away from,
stubborn earth




Grasping Song (March)


new month,

silver needle scraping the
bare margin


sometimes you wake

in your life

and you’re lost


a black thicket tangle

your daybook


a hand-smeared doodle

your home


sometimes you wake

and a high school friend now age 27

has hung herself in an Irvine

psychiatric unit


from a shower curtain that was supposed

to detach


waiting, silt of tea


silt of what day brought about

by night


I’m sorry to tell you this,

sweet air


once I walked on a strip of boardwalk

stained salt and sun

near a green sob of pines

glitter face paint on my face

insatiable candy to eat


now I’m here, half-brave night


if confusion’s a pawn with which

to settle the night


I don’t believe that night becomes settled


who’s lived in this house

oh hunger

who if night is

untethered then over


as all things are over


watch the glitter

in the water

hassle itself then give up


she was sick,

concerned friend


I hadn’t known her for years


“her liver and kidneys

were removed for transplant”

“her heart and pancreas

went to research”



girl pulling hair over

her face under the bed



ragged as anything makes itself


“we are glad she can live

in the lives of others”


where will I go, first white



you knew someone at

fourteen. you knew her again

at twenty-

seven. no. I didn’t know her

but I got an e-mail about her death



cup of half-scarlet,



cup of half-shivered stars


after J., 1985 – 2013



Shamala Gallagher‘s recent poems appear in VOLTVerse DailyWord For/WordCopper NickelThe Offending AdamUnstuck, and elsewhere. This spring she lives in southwest Missouri, teaching composition and staring out at the prairie, and in August you’ll find her in Athens, Georgia.


Arturo Ramírez Lara & Laura Cesarco Eglin

Poetry by: Arturo Ramírez Lara
Translation by: Laura Cesarco Eglin



mas no los dos son uno que no puede olvidar ni tú ni yo en el aire pasando por el ápice de aquel que dobló las almas de tus multitudes es ése que extraño como un brote de dios mohoso y dulce desde el pequeño perfil bajo tu piel y mineral y pálida sonora




but not the two of them are one that cannot forget either you or I in the air going past the apex of he who bent the souls of your multitudes it is that who I miss like the sprouting of moldy and sweet god from the little profile under your skin and mineral and pale sonorous






Un oscuro sueño suave que floreció por debajo de un muro multicolor fuiste de mañana donde el mínimo cerraba la boca para no teñir de aire los sonidos entonces se avejentaron y un soplo hecho el corazón obtuvo un ahora cargado de agua de sol de olor a del tiempo ha




A dark dream smooth that bloomed beneath the multicolored wall you went this morning where the minimum closed its mouth so as not to dye the sounds with air so they aged and a breath the heart turned into obtained a now heavy with water with sun with the smell of with time has






La horda el cielo lo miserable todo pobló en mal tiempo amarillo en que fuimos ahora lo que hay mudo y voraz clava apenas surca parte cae como un circo del color dos debajo de dos no fue suficiente lo que surgimos no cobró hambre o túnel de ti o lánguido murió de entre los arcos míos aquello de los puentes marchitó




The horde the sky all the miserable populated in bad timing yellow where we were now what there is mute and voracious stabs barely grooves leaves falls like a circus colored two underneath two was not enough what we arise has not demanded hunger or tunnel from you or languid died from between the arcs mine that about the bridges wilted






esa llama negar dejaba el blanco con sus enormes tú fuimos lo suave doloroso yo con un molino probaba inútil salivaba al latir tuve el impulso el libre frente poblado tú no pusiste fuimos los circos del vacío estando los dos no fuimos




that flame to deny would leave the target with its enormous you we were the smooth painful I with a mill proved useless I would salivate when it beat I had the urge the free front peopled you did not try we were the circuses of the void both of us being there we did not go


Arturo Ramírez Lara is the author of the collection of short stories, Antología del verde, which won the David Alfaro Siquieros Prize in 2001, and the collection of poems, Nanas para dormir a Jonás (Fondo Editorial Tierra Adentro, 2009). His poetry and critical literary essays have appeared in different anthologies, such as Anuario de poesía mexicana 2005, and journals, including Palabras sin fronteras and Oráculo. He is currently the coordinator of Spanish Language and Spanish and Spanish American Literature, as well as the chair of Control Escolar, at Escuela Preparatoria Central de Ciudad Juárez A.C.

Laura Cesarco Eglin is a poet and translator from Uruguay. She is the author of two collections of poetry, Llamar al agua por su nombre (Mouthfeel Press, 2010) and Sastrería (Yaugurú, 2011), and a chapbook of poems, Tailor Shop: Threads (Finishing Line Press, 2013), co-translated into English by Teresa Williams and her. Her work has been published in a variety of journals, including Modern Poetry in TranslationMiPOesiasThe Acentos ReviewPuerto del SolTurbulence MagazinePeriódico de Poesía, and Metrópolis. Cesarco Eglin’s poems are also featured in the Uruguayan women’s section of Palabras Errantes, Plusamérica. Her poetry and translations have been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.