July 1-7, 2019: Poetry from Monika Rose and Cate Davis

Monika Rose and Cate Davis

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Monika Rose

Bio (auto)

Monika Rose, at home in the foothills of Calaveras County, founded Manzanita Writers Press, a nonprofit literary publisher in Angels Camp, CA. She is published in several anthologies and literary magazines. Her book of poems, River by the Glass, by GlenHill Publications will have company soon with a novel, a collection of short fiction, and a new poetry collection. She is an Adjunct Associate Professor of English at San Joaquin Delta College. Visit Monika on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Monika Rose and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Geometry Microcosm

Geometry has its angles
When sitting squarely in Mr. Flynn’s
Classroom in a corner.

His Boston tweed jacket arm
Bends at a 90-degree pitch
Leather elbow pad poised for magic
“Houston, we’ve got a problem,” he croaks.

Flynn erases the old theorem with his right
Elbow just as he chalks in the new formula
With his right hand in one equationist movement

“Pay attention, kid!” Flynn says
A whirling projectile
Beans a student on the nose
Like a flicked cigarette

“Look alive,” Flynn cracks with a straight-line grin
A barrage of chalk nubs radiate out
Like missiles launched in succession

“I’m feeling a little negative,” Flynn paces near Rosie
In the front row, and she erases so hard that holes
Form in her grid and mistake crumbs scatter on the desk

I liked my pencil needle sharp
In those lengthening shadow days
Enough to stab someone if they got too close
Which almost never happened

“I love big numbers,” he croons.
I turn my compass, fix the protractor torso
On one point or another, wheel the leg
And spin around into finite concentric worlds


Cate Davis

Bio (auto)

Cate Davis lives and works in Toronto, Canada. In her spare time, she pursues her love of poetry.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Cate Davis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Shame Is A Noun

You do nothing but lay back, pliable
Scalp flattened
Like a half-mooned apple
Inert and fascinated by
Invisible specks directly behind my ear.
Your cries are weak but protracted;
Your babbling silent—except once
But your timing was off.

I. Suspect

By small miracle
You learn to walk,
Or at least shuffle,
Toward things that twinkle.
These things are never me.
Something is off; it’s obvious now.
I’m sure I’m responsible,
But I struggle to recall specifics.

II. Act

I panic:
Peel back layers
Peek under folds
Search for clues:
Yellowness of eye, thinness of lip, distension of skull
Which I spot at certain angles
Under certain light.

I take you to a doctor who says
She doesn’t notice anything…specific
But offers an anti-depressant
In case it’s all in my head.

III. Grasp

The pleasure I savoured
Like seasons melting on my tongue
And love resting on my cheeks
Took the edges right off you:
Chemical dissolvers, placental lathes.
Understanding tends to strike like a match.

IV. Confess

I scream into a pillow:
I would have been more careful
If you hadn’t been mine.

Lucky for me your perception
Isn’t what it should be.

V. Shame

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