New Page 1

..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume I, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..

..:: PROSE ::..
..:: ART ::..
..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I

In the House of the Birth of Christ
Virgil Suárez


           Dust speaks its riddles on the mantle,
a child draws the face of a donkey-

           Gun-toting men huddle against dark
corners, a souring of their mouths,

           their eyes beacons lit by the one candle.
There's the sound of water dripping

           outside, that sound, the flitting of a gnat
trapped in an empty vase.  Shadows

           pass, then a grinding of the tank treads
crunching rubble, a gun turrets' grind,

           moving into position.  In penumbra
and dusk, an infant cries, rubs sting

           from its swollen eyes.  A man, a woman
rush to its side.  The woman hushes

           it with a soft-wail song.  The man prays.
Rain falls as if the world would suddenly

           drown and everything would be green
and outside you could hear the birds

           calling out from the fruit tree, a serpent
coiled on its bark, stretching to reach the apple.


//   Advance   //