June 5-11, 2000: Alex Stolis and Gail McMichael-Connolly

week of June 5-11, 2000

Alex Stolis and Gail McMichael-Connolly

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Alex Stolis

Bio (auto)

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis, MN he left his career in hotel management to stay at home with his two children He recently returned to school and writes during what little free time he has left Recent publications include Stirring: A Literary Collection, Morella, Black Bear Review, Templar Phoenix Review and Poetry Motel.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Alex Stolis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


I fold your face A thousand intricate lines,
an origami portrait
Tuck it
carefully among
gypsy ruins,

numb caverns washed
clean and light
Take it out
on days
shiny with bitter air
Unpack it carefully, listen,

Listen to the cool
fingers of the moment,
wrap my eyes
in the linen of your face.

Las Vegas

There was a certain missionary freedom
breathing there A certain toxic memory they made,
walking into an icy web of mutual discontent
Her borrowed wedding veil,
perfume stained,
floats about her face
words twist to the floor
“Pay the man.” she said,
marking time
her eyes, a black winter
He walks uselessly to the back
of the church Genuflects lightly
Looking for her hand,
he stumbles outside.

A Cinquain

Stained glass
image of you
floats through pale boulevards
moist eyes luminous, two holy

Gail McMichael-Connolly

Bio (auto)

I was born and lived in suburbia Massachusetts until my five children and I moved to Ireland last year I wrote poetry many moons ago but sadly started to race the fast lane I am permanently retired from that now and happily I am back to writing
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Gail McMichael-Connolly and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


Eyes and words harmonized,
she did not want him there I chase away her shame that swarms
Like maddening flies from a spring tide

Slow, soft steps still make frail fires
.lean to lick near breast and bone, beneath
.is essence like sweet bruised fruit I waver

at the threshold, sopping up swell of sounds;
.shrill girls over balloon shards deflating into
hushed purl Rising again in waves of clumsy chorus
.Her delight wears coyness like gift paper as she
expels the remains of puerile air

at crippled wax Charred wicks are blown
.black and cold save one Song, light,
.the clapping, means this cake is his,
spell of last light stays his simple breath and lets
her eyes thaw for another gift
Wise and unwrapped, she blows it out I smile at this, water looming
For her discarded chrysalis.


mama raked and yanked hair back This pulled water from my eyes A taut plaited snake dangled in lifeless
tease above sleeping Cerberus
mama told me that most men prefer
women with long hair Fearful I let mine grow
The reward for my
mad vanity and hirsute misery was
thighs forced like rusty scissors
and the waste of this lover to dust
To know the fury of Philomela in flight I cut it off.

Reunion on Hold

He took her from city chains,
abandoned gray gasping spaces Gave her a tended meadow
in the south lawn and the isles of pine
in the north field, a bastion of tree and rock
calling to her over again back when
Days and nights were safe and good,
childs play was all day song yielding
to the rasp of an Orthopteran lullaby When the shatter of rain on sheltered eaves
was drowsy pleasure Cold was joy and heaven’s fire was glory
even the wail of wind could be loved

Now she wants the scent of t-shirts
dried on the line with traces of his body
musk to invade the room but would settle
For strains of Mack the Knife
Only she can hear The unexpected flicker of a lamp Crack of sulphur that can pause a heart A phantom touch to her shoulder
or the static flow of his voice, even with a tone
Betraying old discontent The slice of light from a door ajar still soothes.

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