Dickinsonisms Two, For the Prolonged and Most Sorrowful Absence of my Beloved / Alecia Sakharova


The Bat has turned his Hands to Wings—
of this, Science proclaims—
his Flight a Palping—Chaotical—
Chiropteran—his name—

But just as well, Dear,—by your Touch—
I have known such Delight—
Chiropteress—your hands bear, too,
Traces of Flight!

I once thought Love was dearly had—
I thought—I’d traded All—
The Ancient tale—when lived, forgot—
Of precipitous Fall—

But now I roam with empty Hands,
What magnitudes I hold!
This substance where all Voice resides—
That clouds and birds enfolds—

Then Love I traded—Burdens for—
And Cold—and Sorrow too—
And you gave Loneliness—and now—
We make a gladsome Two—

Let’s seize this bargain—do not ask—
Whom did we swindle so, thereby?—
But take one more Crumb of Spaciousness—
A line of Poetry—

Alecia Sakharova is a resident of Rockwood, MI. She spends all her time with her dogs, her wife, her garden, and the work of Emily Dickinson. She has recently had work published in Detroit Lit Mag, and Rattle.

Jimena Washes an Apple in the Rain / Vincent Tice


The door flung open for excessive heat
between the yellow oilskin and wet boots
and the drowsy cat upon the windowsill
frames well the slouching barn across, and she
who stands within it in blue overalls
waiting for the shower to pass—remembering
the apple in the pocket of her chest
and holding it beyond the eave to rinse.
My sight empties torrential into her as hers
into the dripping apple as the rain—
as the rain grew infinite between us.

Vincent Tice is a poet from northern California. He has been living out of a backpack for several years and working on farms. He has been recently published in PANK, and Rattle Press.

A Sunrise Poem Outside Chennai / Madhan Raj


நெருப்பிலிருந்து மேலே பார்க்கிறேன் /
பாதி உதயமான சூரியனுக்கும் பின்னும் /
மீண்டும் /

சூரியனின் குளோப்ஸ் என் பார்வையில் ஒட்டிக்கொண்டது /
ஆரஞ்சு பழம் போல, /
வறுத்தவுடன் கொழுப்பு கொண்டது

               – பெருஞ்சித்திரனார்


Looking up from the fire /
to the globbed red sun and back, /
and again, and back: /

with half-suns stuck to my vision /
like tangerines /
fat with roasting.


Madhan Raj lives and works in his native Chennai, after studying and working for several years in Italy. Returning home this year, he has discovered again the great cultural wealth of his home, and language, Tamil.

What Life Is / Kent Bramble


Something there is in life detests the sun.
In deep womb-darkness woman bears her child—
Enveloping this darkness whence it comes,
Skin-fastened and bone-riveted, undefiled,

That child will grow, and pass it on the same,
By processes occurring in the dark.
The life is blind within us, without aim,
And is precisely that which moves a shark.

We have received it from our ancestors
Pre-human, pre-historic, pre-divine;
And life is, in a strange and simple word,
One darkness which has been kept from all time.

Kent Bramble is a Sci-fi writer (hobbyist), living in Indian Village, in Detroit.

COVERS! you can buy certain of them to support DLM!

Hey folks! Because we make no money from this project, it strikes us on occasion that it is a bit of a temporal and financial burden. If you’d like to buy one of these bad boys and help out!!! that’d be great!!! send us an email 🙂

Petoskey Stone / Mitch VanAcker


On the shores of North Point
a few arias of crosswind

hatch coils on the mute surf.
Last winter’s undertow

wrenched a crop
from the lake’s full-voiced gullet.

I lift from the clear jelly
a pale gray bud

and appraise the score
left in its frozen vessels:

that sometime verse of seaflesh,
a passacaglia of ancient

lips, ears, and genitals,
slowed by stone and floe

to the oceanic rhythm—
a tone we are deaf to.

Mitch VanAcker is a writer based in Detroit. His work examines “nature” and “the self”—their seeming disharmonies and the structures we build to reconcile them. He enjoys bonfires, kayaking, and impromptu visits to strange cities.

I Do Not Belong Here (Hiking) / Luca Gonçales


Well, sure. A host of pines, a fleeing doe,
A few frogs, mushrooms; all this bores me so.

I walked around the lake, clockwise and back,
And skipped rocks, and tasted tart sumac.

I even caught a frog, and caught another,
And laughed, pressing their lips as they were lovers,

And turned their bloaty bellies to the sun;
And still, of all thoughts, entertaining one.

Alas: this earth is not mine: nor lake, nor wood,
Nor any thing long promised to me good,

Nor work nor love nor friendship is a salve,
But every medicine effects by halves.

I threw my backpack at a fat last apple,
To find it was a soft, worm-eaten handful.

It is not mine. No, none of this is mine:
For I am either Nothing, or Divine.

Luca Gonçales is a self-taught artist living and working in the Downriver area. He works primarily in stone carving.

yes more covers


Denver has really good used bookstores and many of them