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E rotic E rotic Poetry

Publisher WILLIAM BYRON SHEARDOWN

Cover & Layout Design LEANNE PADGETT

Lithography INTERNATIONAL WEB EXPRESS

Bookbinding & Finishing PACIFIC BINDERY

Distribution DISTICOR

Website Design LEANNE PADGETT

Quills Erotic Poetry Magazine is independent of government grants and is privately funded.

Quills Magazine (ISSN: 1708-3486) is published periodically. Editorial, subscription and main office: #1 - 1455 Brigantine Drive, Coquitlam, BC V3K 7C2. Individual subscription rates: $10.45 per year domestic; $20 per year foreign. Single copies: current issue, $10.45; back issues, $10.45. Make cheque or money order payable to Byron Sheardown. E-transfers accepted to [email protected]. Any supplements published under Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine are not included in the subscription price but may be purchased at an additional cost as per supplement. Bulk orders for schools or other institutions can be requested in writing to the Publisher at our main address. Submissions are accepted by email only. of individual poems remains with author. Only notification of accepted submissions will be given. Copying done for any purpose other than personal or educational reasons is prohibited, requests must be made in writing to our main office address. Any change of address should be given at least 6 weeks in advance of next edition and include old address, new address and effective date. Any miscommunication or misdirection of address change falls the onus of the subscriber. We will make every reasonable attempt to deliver past due issues. All rights reserved. Copyright © 2018 by Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine. Post Mail Agreement Number: 4086 5023. Volume XI

Cover Pattern by ALLISON EDEN ANDREWS

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ii Volume XI

Contents

ARIEL DAWN 1 THE BOYS I LOVE

WILHELMINA SALMI 2 ABLAZE

IRIS WILDE 4 ANNUNCIATION

BONNIE QUAN SYMONS 6 IONA BEACH

TRACEY GUNNE 8 ASYLUM

DON GUTTERIDGE 9 WIDE

DON GUTTERIDGE 10 PLEASURES

JOHN B. LEE 11 DARLING, MAY I TOUCH YOUR PINKLETINK

JAMES DEAHL 14 HUNTER’S MOON

JAMES DEAHL 15 WE AWAKEN

JAMES DEAHL 16 DARK ROSE

REBECCA SALAZAR 17 ANXIETY

REBECCA SALAZAR 18 DRAPERY STUDY

GERALD ARTHUR MOORE 19 LOVE LETTER TO A SOLDIER

JEFF NIXON 21 COSMIC FLOWING

J A FARINA 22 BEDOUIN

J A FARINA 23 LIBIDO

TY SPENCER VOSSLER 24 HE OFFERS, SHE ACCEPTS

JACOB BEAUDROW 25 MODERN LOVE

JACOB BEAUDROW 26 THUNDER BAY

TARON J. KEIM 27 A FONDNESS IN CURVES

ROY ROBERTS 29 VENUS

ROY ROBERTS 30 DEAR JANE

ROXY HEARN 31 LOTION

ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN 32 BOUND TO BLISS

ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN 33 THE SOUND OF HER THIGH

ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN 34 A WAR IN THE VALLEY

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN 35 TO WHAT END

ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN 36 A WOMAN AT DAWN

JULIE PARRELL 37 SWEET LIKE TENDER

TAI 41 MORNING LIGHT

JADE WALLACE 42 BY SATURDAY NIGHT

MARTIN DURKIN 44 HEART OF THE MEAL

DARCY BLAHUT 46 PEPPERS

DAN MURPHY 48 YOU ASKED ME TO LOOK INTO YOU OVER

DAN MURPHY 49 WATER GLASS

PATRICIA OLSON 50 THE CHECKERED SHIRT

PATRICIA OLSON 51 WILL YOU KISS ME THERE?

MARK A. MCCUTCHEON 52 THE LINEAMENTS

R. C. MINOVA 54 CORPS A CORPS

TRACEY GUNNE 55 ASTRAPHOBIA

TRACEY GUNNE 56 DARK SKY RESERVE

JAQUELINE FELDMAN 57 CAMEL LITTLE CLOSER

ANDREA VAN NOORD 59 LOVE LETTER

MICHAEL EVERETT 60 SECRETS OF THE FLESH

JENNIFER L. DUNLOP 61 TOUCH

KATHI M. NIDD 62 SPIRALING

CRISTINA VIVIANI 64 LINGER

CONTRIBUTORS 66

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VOLUME XI

v

Volume XI

ARIEL DAWN

THE BOYS I LOVE

The boys from the top floor, they bring gifts: moonshine, and weed. Yesterday they pulled armchairs around my high canopy bed, and pulled my love-seat to the end. I leave it this way, the room focused, cornered by blue and rose velour, and hotel drapes the same tint as buttermilk.

They watch over me. Pet and rub, offer fingers and thumbs to my lips.

We dice and cards and exquisite corpse on the bed-tray or my lap. We play under covers: a dozen hands, an army of fingers. No one says anything about it. We watch late night shows and pass the booze spilling down my chin, collarbone and breasts, so one has to swim up the bed with an open mouth; I wonder who lured whom.

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WILHELMINA SALMI

ABLAZE

She absorbs the parts of him tender and hidden aspects she suspects he might reject in the daylight

that night they fit together lustful and kismet mouths excavate deep warmth strangers inscribing eternal ciphers.

She watches him in the dim light push milky fluid into her infusing wile with potential ...wonders to her disbelief if he intends to keep her

days later life dawned quietly inside her self-assured...ablaze...certain she recounted in one week her sex bloom Tyrian purple certain as her voracious appetite

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anything consumed in urgency in that night it was his skin dark and distant deep brooding sunset her mouth ardently memorized languidly recorded recalled days later

She felt life dawn quietly inside her, then, like him vanished lost across oceans

And after knowing him only that one night the difficulty of location: the impossibility of a tornado back from Asia.

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IRIS WILDE

ANNUNCIATION

I lie face down under the covers, my belly clenched And wait for you to touch me

You are graceful, Gabriel, an angel Your wings rustle

My legs are clamped together; yet the tip of a feather could unlock them

You slide back the sheet my bare feet And lay your hard cock Into the basin of my soles

You do not hurry

Mine are soles that have never left the earth But wrapped around you, my Arch angel They grasp the inevitable Rising To carry me heavenward

The of the spheres is a tattoo, a hornpipe, a jig

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How big are your wings? I imagine A span greater than your arms outspread A musculature powerful enough To raise a man’s weight as well as their own

Yet they land so gently Like a stream of warm water A quiver On my calves The down of birds of paradise Thrusting And whispering

God is coming to us all

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BONNIE QUAN SYMONS

IONA BEACH

We walked along the north arm of the Fraser River parallel to the UBC lookout point across from us—

he sipped beer, me cranberry apple cider.

Tugboats pulled along log booms, pleasure yachts passed us

he laid a tiger blanket for us to sit on, took off his shirt, unbuttoned his jeans;

first my tank top, bra came off, then my black lace panties, linen shorts.

Our sex on the beach was interrupted when a couple and their dog walked closer to us.

Our clothes went back on, though not for long,

once my tongue sucked him hard again.

The sun shone white over my closed eyes while he stroked, deep inside me. The tide came in—

soaked our feet, the legs of his jeans.

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On the south side of the jetty, we sat upon logs, watched the tide come up, as a corner of the tiger blanket, his jeans dried on nearby stumps.

On our walk back to the parking lot, crossing over wood debris, we nearly stepped on a ground nest of two eggs—

the startled Killdeer flew off, stood guard nearby.

We passed shrubs of not-quite-ripe Himalayan blackberries.

I snapped photos of clusters of brown-eyed Susans.

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TRACEY GUNNE

ASYLUM

you nourish the soil

manipulate sunshine and raindrops to do your bidding scatter seeds in casual disarray forth and back the wind hazardous for the love protruding not so firmly rooted

even though you tend with faithful hands weeds advance and blossom more dense between my thighs softened by touch and moist where your scent lingers heavy

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DON GUTTERIDGE

WIDE

We often stopped to watch the girls skipping with such dexterity in Double Dutch, their bare-legged bursts begging to be espied,and we dreamt of the gentler sex thatched and thigh wide.

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DON GUTTERIDGE

PLEASURES

On Canatara beach the girls, encased in their one-piece swim suits, burrowed thigh-deep in the silting warmth, letting the sun’s measured rays embrace their embossed bodies, while, oddly, we stood by, at a loss, pawing the sand like stunned stallions, and watched in awe the wilting of our desire and all the pleasures we couldn’t reach.

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JOHN B. LEE

DARLING, MAY I TOUCH YOUR PINKLETINK

in those early years of marriage when we walked the back lane forming the long island of meander leading through the spring swale surrounding us behind the house where thimbleberries ripened through the fence pressing crushed areolas of small fruit brambled on the full bosom of the wet fields of Somerset and as we strolled we heard from both before and aft the thrilled chorus of the swamp singing among the red branches of dogwood piercing the stillness both lace and leaf like the life of the heart throbbing through a green mirror of algae and something comes true—so eventual it might winter in us like blush on the cheek coming in from the cold

and I am remembered of the quick black pollywog pulsing in a jar in the dill-coloured water we stole from the pond at school

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and what it was it also seemed flooding the world in verdant release after my son’s watching a swan’s breast advancing through High Park its white reflection chasing feather-form within the gentle chevron of a wave’s result that proof of going towards forever as it is with where the hand goes plunging in to release the stopper in a warm bath for the soapy clock-wind whirling to a lovely gurgle in the gullet of a thirsty drain

we were the especial silence at the centre of all that singing and it mattered not how quietly we went

there was this secret knowledge even of our shadow presence even of the lucid darkness within the limpid veil of the least movement of the light

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we were overheard by the grey caress of bullfrogs listening as though to be caught singing were a sin as the farm dog Tip asleep in the cool dip of the earth in the forsythia shade of the veranda remains in the mind long after he’s under the grass and I’m crooning on the porch full voiced and unembarrassed when my uncle says “what the hell are you doing...” and I know it’s not a question but an accusation

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JAMES DEAHL

HUNTER’S MOON

The Hunter’s Moon writes her own story on these scudding clouds.

Beyond my dormer window a rising wind tears the last leaves from the elm.

Moonlight swells through midnight streets like an autumn tide bearing a message in a bottle.

Slipping through a breach in the clouds the cat hunts mice in fallen goldenrod.

Within night’s deepest hour we lie together listening to Mozart.

As my tongue parts the folds between your legs moonshadows fill my mouth.

In the sky a white bone tracing the rotation of flesh, the perishable earth.

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JAMES DEAHL

WE AWAKEN

for Norma on her 84th birthday

We awaken to distant thunder, the sound of rain in the black walnut thin mist marks the shore of the lake everywhere the stillness of early morning our lips pressed together my hands find your cool, smooth thighs and yet again our love is fresh as the first time, like we’ve never done this before.

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JAMES DEAHL

DARK ROSE

for Norma West Linder

All morning I shopped for potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and firm, white leeks at the farmers’ market, a final gathering from fields soon to fall under Ontario’s long winter.

Simmered with fresh pork and wine from southern Italy, their steam fills the kitchen as heavy clouds blow in. After our meal and sweet jazz from the forties we drift towards embrace.

December. A hunger strides mere food can’t calm: a storm desire rides every night. Thick flakes slant down. O love, let me kiss the dark rose within you to banish for tonight the cry of the snow.

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REBECCA SALAZAR

PERFORMANCE ANXIETY

a fragile pink lightbulb skin softer than eyelids or crepe i fear my teeth will tear you wrap my tongue most daintily

and squint

because i’ve always feared projectiles i was terrible at softball badminton was better i could see the white web rippling in flight before soft impact on my mouth

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REBECCA SALAZAR

DRAPERY STUDY

is it a wonder da Vinci spent years shadows for draperies or now home decor stores hire experts on curtains at minimum wage or making one’s bed ever mattered when all mimics a lover laying down, the way skin falls so smoothly and drapes over bones, arching long over muscle, its motion and warmth, and the weightless suspension of fat

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GERALD ARTHUR MOORE

LOVE LETTER TO A SOLDIER

When he unrolled his sock-donuts a tiny note tickertaped to the floor of our canvas tent.

In the pulsing kerosene light he read her script, then held it underneath his moustache, to breathe in what she had left him there.

I recalled how Sir Walter Raleigh cut a love letter into glass with a diamond.

One soldier I know had one written on rose petals, sewn carefully together with his lover’s hair.

There, in the hot whisper of gaslight, they were dancing; for an instant the tent was a soft moss forest floor where the picnic basket rests, and the waterfalls drone white noise to the entwined lovers, resting on their home-made quilt.

In that blessed analepsis he was away from the business of painting targets with lasers, from insurgents, drone strikes, IED casualties, ramp ceremonies.

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Away from the bagpipe below the tail of the C-130 Hercules, and the long funerary drive on Canadian highways, under frowning flag draped bridges, to the equally long and lonely symptoms of PTSD.

In that tent he was himself, with her, before the sandstorms of war, and the digging out.

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JEFF NIXON

COSMIC FLOWING

Simply hearing her name spoken disrupts my chemistry, Redirects the blood flow so it now laves the shores of my consciousness, Thus the weak knees and the inability to see beyond her. It’s a glorious and moving stagnation, like a great symphony skipping in it’s player. Truly the perfect handicap.

She offers a new plain of existence. She is a foreign dimension flowing as a stream on the greatest day in Spring. I am merely a paper boat winding along between the sun-ripened banks.

And yet She is the breeze also And The reason for my past And The adjuster of my

All-knowing without conceding a thread of her magnificent fabric Woven true and tailor made via her masterful divinity.

We are each other with our hearts set to beat in lock-step As the metronome of our harmonious becoming. Our path evolves with every passing day; Once a humble back-country dirt road displaying bicycle tire trenches Now becomes a brilliant cobblestone garden bridge. And we sit atop the edge and down into the stream flowing beneath Our dangling sneakers.

Here glides me! Through her as the sun-ripened banks Witness this impossible balance of chemistry and spirit.

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J A FARINA

BEDOUIN

I enter her of evening promising darkened pleasure beneath a huntress moon in her tent of hide and silk incensed with sandalwood rebab strings intoxicate. her dark eyes on mine as torches flame and flicker desires held in shadows retire behind curtains billowing as a desert wind in movement to the stars.

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J A FARINA

LIBIDO

reading too much Pablo and Ella i descend into the midsummer heat for you-not the flowers and hearts kind, the raw wolfen need of howling release we once mainlined in sweaty darkness alone, the windows closed and to hell with pristine sheets staying wrinkle free, the dark wicked kind oblivious to everything except the dragon-fire in our loins thirsting to be extinguished

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TY SPENCER VOSSLER

HE OFFERS, SHE ACCEPTS

Opportunity knocks, Lucia opens someone fresh, exciting

He offers a kiss Enticing, inviting

Opportunity whispers, Lucia listens to sweet suggestions swimming in her head, “Let’s take this lover off to bed”

She offers her hand, leads him in, little needs to be said

Opportunity enters, Lucia opens wide air infused with heated sighs, He enjoys a blessed symphony between her silky thighs

She takes a deep breath, lets out a cry

Opportunity arrives, cosmic clashes, Lucia thrashes, he pours, thick, opalescent, warm, then they rest, for the subsequent storm

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JACOB BEAUDROW

MODERN LOVE

Absence makes the heart grow fonder in only 50 percent of recorded cases.

Recent research finds that half the time your heart’s okay right where it is.

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JACOB BEAUDROW

THUNDER BAY

The heat and the hot water have been off for days. They’re telling us we’re welcome to sleep and shower in the university gym.

Around midnight the windows moan in the cold, and I go down to the parking lot and sit in my car with the heat on, and the radio too.

Then you call me from London to tell me you’re cold and you miss me. The only warm thing in this city is between my legs.

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TARON J. KEIM

A FONDNESS IN CURVES

A fondness in curves Comfort, warmth and safety

Also, my lecherous intentions My lingering eyes and too long stares; not intended to make a whore of you, but they do and I am heavy with guilt, sitting with my pitiful lust

The tautness of lily skin stretched over jutting bone The plain of your abdomen laid vast into the riverbanks of your rib cage

Pubic hair, a grassy meadow or floodplain, made a valley by the ridges of your hips

The give of tissue on thighs and ass, yielding to touch indented like wind ripples across dunes of sand

I try to make your flesh poetic to diminish my sin

The curve of your upper lip A fleshy crescent making itself a languid bay to the black pool of your mouth I want to bathe myself in the warmth of its waters

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I am filthy with desire Pulling my eyes up the length of your profile, marathon breathless

Our eyes meet and I am shameful My thoughts hung like the moon in my eyes I am base, a leper colony of sex acts you would never perform

I have reduced the beauty of your soul, your body, to a road map of stimulation that I would drive myself through hard, numb and covetous

All this is beneath you I am disgusted with my unhinged want

You are much more than I have learned; I am so sorry

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ROY ROBERTS

VENUS

Last night I slept in the bed you once tried sleeping in but failed, repeatedly awakened by dreaming you loved me. The best bad night’s sleep I’ve ever had you said, close to my ear. I slept there last night and imagined you still dream of loving me, imagined my shuddering lips on you, imagined your nipples red with ready and the curve and sway of your hips, imagined your passion a river you surrendered to my mouth and I was consumed by all I consumed that best sleepless night I’ve ever had.

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ROY ROBERTS

DEAR JANE

On approach our eyes bear wet on each other until my hand arrives on the small of your back and I draw you to me arching from the waist when a silent gasp will open your mouth, not to speak but as the image of what you don’t say, your head tipping back giving your neck to the beast and I bow to your soulful chest and kiss from your surrendered neck to your cheeks and my lips will soon find yours in the dark to be dazzled intoxicated astonished by how its intensity surprises me every time, as does how sweet your neck behind your ears. There are places we’ll save to be kissed other times but this will be the teasing time, the tasting time the time that doesn’t satisfy but only increases the hunger and already we can’t wait until next time.

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ROXY HEARN

LOTION

I like a guy who wears lotion. That moment in sex when it Melts onto me.

Not that intrusive abrasive cologne That intrudes and assaults my Nostrils with that stinging scent.

I’d rather be caressed in the soft Downy feathers that he took time To apply.

Started at the bottom as he worked his Way up. Fingers kneading soft scented Dew into tense muscles.

And with each touch on my skin He shares himself with me. ghost Handprints on my hips and breasts.

As I walk to my apartment he Has left his embrace, a trailed memory, Sunk into the cloth fibres of my garment.

And I know that the body beneath those clothes Is not the same as it was before. Adorned by phantom Kisses, leaving behind a musk that I know is not My own.

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN

BOUND TO BLISS

Bound, my hands to bedpost, ordered to stay So, to give, she could return the favour Of beckoned bliss she could control; delay; I would such cruelty to eternal savour. She rode me hard until I pleaded end, Then soft enough to fend off ending still, Then still harder ‚Äòtil I could not suspend My bliss release; she descends upon my thrill. But, despite my beckoning stop And bedpost, cracking, nearly broke in half, She mouthed a knot with tongue from base to top, It felt so good, I couldn’t help but laugh. In scrambled words, alost against a bliss, Again I plead, to , the sweet, her kiss.

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN

THE SOUND OF HER THIGH

It is not so loud that I cannot hear, For breath, she gasps to find my hair, and grips As if to beg, as though I’d stop, she fears. I’ll cruelly tease her when I crest her hips. She fights to hold my gaze when I look passed Her bitten lip, and moans do mounting soar. When she finds that she can no longer last, I hear the sound of her thigh, begging more. But deaf, the only sound I hear, her heart, Paces to catch hold and control her fit, As she draws air so hard, a quiet starts, And clench, her legs tense, and I know that’s it. I, loose, hear then her joy resounding ; She knows the noise has only just begun.

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN

A WAR IN THE VALLEY

How soft, the gentle passions of the tongue? Or speak they war of one’s internal storm? I’ve many passions tongued a battle sung, To scream thy victory; my ears to warm. For rising tempests have but wars to cause, And lust, a war, I’d taste; my tongue to wage. The sweet of bliss, war won, gives world to pause: And shaking storms burst forth as though from cage. And time doth stop to welcome triumph’s feast: The might to dine on wrangling legs of zeal, And brace the tensing core of fighting ceased, To pierce with plunging tongue, and flavour feel. May wars of carnal appetites see praise, For I’ve a lust to tongue, and tempest raise.

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN

TO WHAT END

Then every muscle in my body screamed, I grit my teeth so hard I thought they’d break, I clenched my fists, my body tensing teemed, And lost my sight; my arms began to shake. I gasped for air, but my lungs heaved to stall, Then deafness struck; I knew that I was floored. In a moment, I slowly drifted into thrall, Then at once the silence broke, and I roared. Crash! My right clutched the wall to steady still, My left atear my hair from root, I woke, And lumbered, striving failed, to find my will To return from the fury you evoke. Frenzy over, with what senses I could wrest, I was in bliss, and fell into your breast.

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ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN

A WOMAN AT DAWN

What crest the iris makes upon the morn, Pervading room alit, takes sunnied grin. And though too soon she’s made from slumber torn, She knows what fun she’d please to have again. As grins bear fonder thoughts of trouble last, And dawn to rose the kissing of her cheek, The sun ashine her body’s pleasures past, And light another thought of pleasure seeked. But, fleeting joys of night alight the norm: Her memory depths plenty pleasures lurk. And motto’d is the spell that she’s adorned: Business in the eyes, party in the smirk. And though the night may trouble plenty fawn, I would her body shine, and I the dawn.

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JULIE PARRELL

SWEET LIKE TENDER

Where does it start? With the twist of her hair a certain way Or the flex of her arm in a tank top Or with the smell of her? Those blue eyes catching light, sparkling like innocents Sweeping me off my feet again.

Kisses run the course of my neck Sucking and Salty Hands find ways to undo Touching and grabbing

Breathless, wrapped around her Moving and MMMmmoaning In primal Sweat, sweet like tender dew- reflects off her body in the midsummer’s light

Did I glimpse God? Between those moans did I find freedom?

Soft, everywhere is soft And still the yearning builds

1 finger, 2 fingers, 3 fingers, four Can I have a little more?

First Finger slips in smmmmmoooooothly Uhmmmmmmm So wet.

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Second Finger wiggles in too! Reaching deeeeper and tttttttighter Deeper and tighter Smmmmoooothly

So wet. Yum.

“bite Bite Bite BITE my nipples” The body yells from within.

1 finger, 2 fingers, 3 fingers, 4 Can I have a little more?

PLEASE?

3,3,3 Twisting and twirling, twisting and twirling and twisting and twirling into my body. Pulsing and pounding deep down on to you. mmmmmm ya ya ya! 3 is a magical number.

1 finger 2 fingers 3 fingers 4 fingers!! Can I have a little more? 4,4,4 YES! YES! YES!

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Guttural sounds Escape clenched lips Body arches Body aches Body craves Body demands MORE!

YES! YES! YES!

Sweat - Sweet like dew spent our bodies ripple together. And my body DEMANDS MORE!!!

Fingers clenched with thumb A tight fist is made I twist and turn Pound and pulse myself onto you Forcing you deeper

Hands clench Nothing but pulsing and Pounding Deeeeeeper, MORE! NOW!!!

Head clears So full!!

FINALLY!!

Sounds turn to grunts While yelps quicken

“Fuck, fuck fuck” escapes my mouth sounding like a porn star Tightens , stops , .... Faster ....

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Deeeeeepppppper ...

Explodes Streams Of Wet Clear

Pause

Sweet of Nothingness Bliss follows. Yum.

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TAI

MORNING LIGHT

A calm soughing from her side of the bed, an angel purrs in the whisper-hour of sunrise. Mi esposa’s hand, like a soft linen napkin draped over the edge of a table, wedding ring glistens in curtained thin-morning light.

I gently click the door closed behind me and quietly drift down the path to the silence of a cloud-roofed patio room with the palm-swaying mist-filled view of our waking valley.

The ghost of a thrubbing bird echoes in timeless jungle.

A distant oxen mournfully moos to the shadow-less dawn while I wait for you to greet me with your forever beam of generosity.

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JADE WALLACE

BY SATURDAY NIGHT

On Friday night I’m at an end of semester social gathering with my classmates. I’m one of two people there who are sober. When the tipplers go out to dance off their drunkenness, I stay at home with the other temperate to watch a movie. It is sort of about a girl named Ruby and that’s about as far as I get. Five minutes into the cinematic adventure, I’m staring at my scarlet nails, wondering whether the girl I’m sitting with wants to cuddle up to me like I want to cuddle up to her. Grandiose dreams. I’ve been trying not to like her for eight months because first I thought she was straight and then I heard that she was already in love with a woman.

By Saturday night I’m on the bus heading back to her apartment. I don’t know what she wants, but I can guess. I’m on the phone with my best friend, telling him I’m nervous, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m no virgin but I’ve never been with a woman and I’ve never been with anyone who didn’t prove their love for me first. Still, I knew from the moment she said you should come over that this statement was true by any interpretation. I had a choice, but it was only a poor one. I can forgive myself many things, but there would have been no reconciliation between my courage and my reason if I told her thanks anyways and went home instead.

As I knock on her door, I think that finally my efforts to pantomime a gay stereotype in order to broadcast my availability have proven their merit. I think about how roundabout fate is, how months ago I drunkenly and confusedly kissed the guy she used to fuck. I don’t know how or why the scattered constellation of coincidences finally aligned in some coherent pattern that led me to her doorway.

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But here I am. I don’t even think to ask her any of the questions that perhaps I should — about her girlfriend, or her health, or her heart. The has faded into a cinematic, monochromatic lack of colour, and my red lipstick, the red Christmas lights in the bar where she first called me, the thin red cloth of the shirt I will soon be sliding up her back, are all but beacons in the colourless dark, markers of my inevitable landing.

I barely have my boots off when she stands in front of me, asking to kiss me. And I’ve got my hands in her hair before I’ve finished yes. Tall and staggering as an Amazon, she carries me to her bed. I want her to hurt me in ways I would never let men touch me. And she does not disappoint.

Later, when she sleeps and I cannot, I try to remember the lines of her back. I look at her tattoos and wonder what they can’t tell me in the dark.

By Sunday morning, I am coloured by contusions that a collared shirt can’t conceal, undone by tell-tale tenderness that a knotted tie cannot cloak. Somehow, in past encounters, I always wanted more than sex. I wanted adoration, existential subtext, or some other kind of effable benefit. Now, I feel like I can be alone in my awe of her. I grin vaguely at the train window, which mirrors a person I’ve never met, but have waited years to become. In the aisle, some joyful ancient sprite sways with the snaking of the subway. She has seashell ears and sapphire hair. And suddenly, I am unafraid to grow old.

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MARTIN DURKIN

HEART OF THE MEAL

He will not cut into egg it feels too much like cutting into her pushing her to the side and carving out her heart he rather prefers the challenge of the prickly pear delicate fingers to finding the sweet fruit or pomegranate rapturing the seeds without staining the kitchen He will not compare her to wine or say she’s a pond in

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the hot desert He would prefer to make her a tea clean the table after a meal...... but egg plant no He will not cut into egg plant or push her aside to discover her heart

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DARCY BLAHUT

PEPPERS

There is meaning behind this pepper she cuts in two, the cluster of seeds dangling as from a clitoris.

The red one I love best, but truly they are all blest— green, orange, yellow.

If there were blue peppers I’d lick the sky, and with stars on my tongue recall one by one the names of all young lovers.

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So good they are who are not cut in two, not swallowed yet but hugging patiently, expectantly within their firm taut skins the stalk.

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DAN MURPHY

YOU ASKED ME TO LOOK INTO YOU OVER WINE

You asked me to look into you over wine. To unzip you like a skin purse and study those dark trinkets holding you. Then tell you over tea what I thought of your ornaments. Those Camino bells jingling from eucalyptus trees; the curved effigy of your soul, the haunting of youth, your exquisite watercolours that blossom in spring.

So what do I think of all the darkness shielding you from your epiphany of stars? Tangled string stranding a marionette, ebony eyes as mysterious as ’s moons, fickle heart churning for release in the snarly arms of eternity. Who am I to know a heart?

Perhaps if I were dew I would have woven my into you and laid my mouth against your heart while you slept. And as a blind man feels the face of his lover, found all of you. My tongue turning you inside out and discovering those little brass wheels that make you tinkle in the middle of the night.

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DAN MURPHY

WATER GLASS

I live inside the water glass You keep next to your bed On the night table near the lamp from Barcelona.

You once saw yourself reflected in me And even left lipstick on my mouth one night So I would taste you while you slept.

Now this morning you poured me out. Water bubbles pinned inside of me. My heart no longer cold enough To quench the fires burning in you.

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PATRICIA OLSON

THE CHECKERED SHIRT

I unbutton your collar with my teeth, I butterfly kiss the hollow of your throat, You moan softly, In anticipation of what is to come, My tongue trails down your chest like a tiny, newborn snake, I lick your belly, mushroom-damp on this midsummer night, I unfasten your belt, I draw in my breath, With the hushed awe and wonder of an eremite at a silver shrine, At the sight of you, Growing hard with a fierce urgency, I kiss you, there, again, yet again, Tiny, stinging little kisses, Like pinpricks from a fairy wand, I caress you with my love-tongue, Then open my mouth, my throat, my all, And take you deep, Till I feel you like tender steel at the back of my throat, And then comes the moment, the sweet release, And I drink your hot, salty love, Till it soothes my breasts, my aching womb, Covers, like a salve, the dust-dry wounds of my broken soul, And washes me, cleanses me, purifies me, Nourishes me like dewy manna to a desert thirst, And both of us spent, I rest my head on your belly, And I just have to tell you, “OMG, you’ve looked so hot all day in that checkered shirt!”

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PATRICIA OLSON

WILL YOU KISS ME THERE?

Beloved man in blue jeans and T, You make me sink upon my knees, Your whiskered face against my cheek, Makes my heart, my limbs grow weak, I ache for your touch, your sweet embrace, And the come-hither look upon your face, My womb turns liquid at the sight of your charms, And the man-grip of your tattooed arms, Daylong, I feel the phoenix’ flame increase, As I dream of tonight with you beneath the sheets, When you promise to love me as never before, Make me your virgin, your mistress, your lover, your whore, O denim-clad man with the thick, ruffled hair, Can it be that tonight, you will kiss me there?

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MARK A. MCCUTCHEON

THE LINEAMENTS

in you wife I would desire what indoors is all haze sound the lineaments of gratified deep fire these illicit syllables

alone at the front desk slide your hand under your skirt press fingers to lips your swift slick digits quicken a private rush leave Reception blushing

after work wet as weather you pin me to a park bench your run-cut legs snug around my hips as jets fog the city we syncopate the secret liquid funk one pulse under two coats

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contain my ardour like a virus how your body glows firm and bright as vows Monday moans or vowels blossom from your throat like nobody’s business

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R. C. MINOVA

CORPS A CORPS

sliding into third base with two fingered poke check, stretching to soft spot finish , aching sweet in desperate bid for more.

your ability to melt butter scores you a naked reverse and I remind you to keep the headlock gentle and your yoke strong.

laid embers dim content as you roll over and tell me I’m amazing.

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TRACEY GUNNE

ASTRAPHOBIA

amid earth and cloud thunder resonates the echo of lips trailing on the labia arched the unabashed truth of how beguiling my feminine aura you interrupt this poem i retreat into silence you enter me like lightning a brilliant flash of temporary light

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TRACEY GUNNE

DARK SKY RESERVE

I am moon to your jupiter venus to your sun your glass eye reveals only what you need to see like how the milky way is a dimly lit and intricate labyrinth of resurrections and how the nebula of my torso hides a nursery of stars

so if I fucked you in every dimension and every galaxy leads to forever could our love be the

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JAQUELINE FELDMAN

CAMEL LITTLE CLOSER

You see, I could have said The trip was merely, fabulous! I met my lover at the Opera House! Not so!

Ah, the greatest image granted me... I met my ‘Best Love’ by the !

Shadows of dusk The sweet pungent scent The silhouette of a tree Moon slightly bent

Romantic, engaging precocious was He A Charming delight He pursued and insisted My PRINCELY CAMEL Undaunted, enlisted No folly resisted

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Sweet Hairy Knight One hump and a smile at just the right height

Won by his charm On the beach by the sea He snuggled my arm And just grinned You see!

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ANDREA VAN NOORD

LOVE LETTER

My desire for you is entirely out of hand. It circles me like a mad beast. I smell your sex breath in its wet mouth And open wide.

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MICHAEL EVERETT

SECRETS OF THE FLESH

she speaks to me the secrets of the flesh that i bury three fathoms deep in my heart

with a touch she makes it rain pleasure and turn thin skin into the pages of a that she flips open and begins to devour changing the story at her whim and fancy

together we create a new word a secret a whispered desire a screamed pleasure that i carve across her skin and bury deep within her body

wait, she speaks

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JENNIFER L. DUNLOP

TOUCH

I see fields of golden grasses welcoming a ceramic sky craving the wind

I want us to be there our bodies rippling, undulating over each other as the breeze over the grasses

I want you to touch me like the wind does powerfully, gently, everywhere all at once

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KATHI M. NIDD

SPIRALING

I feel like smoke spiraling

up from a cigarette snuffed

in the gritty ashtray on your bedside table. Or the soiled sheets dampened by your toppled tumbler of Scotch.

Those remnants of last night;

The highs and lows of it

Tugging tongue

Nuzzling neck

Swirling thumbs against my nipples Pooling fervour deep down Your bristly ‚‘whatever time’ shadow burns against my thigh Infatuation of escape raged to raptured climax.

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Now remnants lie words ensnarled in my throat, eyes blotched into red spheres.

Just raw regret blending with drunken devour

Spiraling.

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CRISTINA VIVIANI

LINGER

l i n g e r hangs there for a moment or two maybe three breaths longer than..,

I linger in love

suspend myself in mid-flight, stretched out at the waist between the first and second syllable somewhere between you and I the space pulls and draws itself a field of innocent suspension not wanting to say good-bye

we give in to the hesitation, both here and there to taste a little more to rest on the tip of our tongues—lean into my heart with each pulse passing at a leisurely we gather each other in

as if there may not be an other as if this may be the last as if

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—this is the last our knowing of this moment slipping by —the one living now into it’s next

... I want to prolong you the powdery golden scent of mimosa from my childhood’s garden won’t rub off, the lavender from my long-gone grandmother’s orange shawls stays with, a black and yellow snake slithering over my palms, between my fingers does not wash away, nor the tension pulled walking into a spider’s web don’t go linger whispers to it’s beloved stay a little longer—won’t you

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AEA

SKIGASMS

She is an unrelenting mountain She beconds me to ride her Smooth sensuous slope And deep deep valleys Abundant with frothy magic! Her plush ravine takes hold of my stiff planks My hard pole finds purchase on her plush mound Propelling me deeper into her wintery caress.

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Contributors

AEA is a water baby who lives out her passion for life through creative expression & physical adventuring.

JACOB BEAUDROW is a bleeding heart with no clean shirts. His poetry and short fiction have been featured in The Artery, Echolocation, and The Antigonish Review. He couldn’t have done this without the love and support of his two cats.

DARCY BLAHUT In a recent literary tangent, Darcy Blahut has co-written a comic stage play. Darcy lives in Prince Albert with his wife and two children, where he continues to work toward the completion of his third collection of poems.

ADAM CASOLE-BUCHANAN is a content marketer from Toronto, Ontario. He is a lifelong enthusiast, with specific appreciation for the English Sonnet, primarily those written by Shakespeare and Spenser.

ARIEL DAWN lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her children, Merlin and Angel. Recent writing appears in Scraps flash fiction , Black & Blue, Island , The Bohemyth, and forthcoming in Ambit. She is working on her first .

JAMES DEAHL lives in Sarnia with the writer Norma West Linder. He is the author of twenty-three literary titles, the four most recent being: Two Paths Through (with Norma West Linder, 2014), North Point (2012), Rooms The Wind Makes (2012), and North Of Belleville (with Richard M. Grove, 2012).

JENNIFER L. DUNLOP has been writing poetry for as long as she can remember. She has had multiple poems published in Tower Poetry editions, as well as other publications. She lives in Ontario with her family.

MARTIN DURKIN Over the past four years Durkin has been published in various and literary magazines including: ByWords, The Dream, Niagara Falls Poetry Project, E-zine, Blurred Blue Tattoo, AnotherTorontoQuarterly.com, Jones Ave., Origins, and Subterranean Quarterly. Durkin spends his time taking part in poetry readings across southern Ontario, being a freelance writer/photographer in Greater Toronto Area, and was the poetry editor for Origins .

MICHAEL EVERETT lives in london, ontario. he continues to explore his inspiration and she continues to explore him. he has been published in journals throughout europe and in central america. he is a good liar.

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J A FARINA Joseph A. Farina is a now retired lawyer in Sarnia, ON. and an award winning . He has had two of poetry: “The Cancer Chronicles” and “Ghosts of Water Street” published by Serengeti Press. His poetry has appeared in Poetry Journals and Magazines throughout Canada and the USA ., notably Quills Poetry Magazine, The Windsor Review, Tower Poetry, Fiele-Feste, Mobius, Boxcar Poetry Revue, Ascent Aspirations, Arabesques Reviews, Philadelphia and Lummox.

JACQUELINE ‘JQI’ FELDMAN wickedly funny, fiercely loyal, incredibly warm, amazingly smart - an amazing friend. Always in our Hearts.

TRACEY GUNNE Tracey Gunne is an uncultivated writer who started scribbling thoughts and on paper at a young age but only recently rediscovered this passion. She is addicted to words and how they can be arranged so delicately; yet still cause a heart to shatter. Inspired by nature and the intricate pattern of her own life’s story... She writes to make sense of all the random chanting that goes on in her head... Her poetry is simple, raw and always heartfelt. Currently she lives in Boundary Creek, New Brunswick and would love to spend every waking moment on the beach writing... well, perhaps not every moment... she needs a muse to help the ink flow :)

DON GUTTERIDGE (no bio submitted)

ROXY HEARN is a dance major and major graduate from York University, Toronto. She has been published in Incendies Magazine, the Wild Quarterly, Jonah Magazine, Cargo Literary, and Pictures & Portraits. She has also studied abroad in England and Italy.

TARON J. KEIM Taron is a burgeoning wordsmith, hand-tool woodworker and currently manages a local tattoo shop. Most of his work focuses on social issues and visceral naturalism bisected by . He is currently working on his first poetry collection, entitled “Humane Atrocities”.

JOHN B. LEE (no bio submitted)

MARK A. MCCUTCHEON teaches and cultural studies at Athabasca University. He has published poetry and fiction in SubTerrain, Carousel, Kaleidotrope, and Existere. His research articles appear in journals like in Canada, University of Toronto Quarterly, and Continuum.

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R. C. MINOVA is a poet who has been published in several print and online magazines, including Quills.

GERALD ARTHUR () MOORE lives in Moncton, New Brunswick where he teaches high school English and coaches rugby. Moore, a poet and playwright, was formerly an officer in the Canadian Army. He attended Regent’s Park College, Oxford University. His poetry has appeared in Vallum, The Antigonish Review, and The Dalhousie Review. He currently leads the team HEADR for Haiti, and has completed five humanitarian work missions to Haiti since the 2010 earthquake. His plays have run in Toronto, Halifax, Moncton, and also in England and Luxembourg. Moore’s father says, “I don’t know if Art’s stuff is any good, I haven’t bothered to read it. I read stories about cowboys.”

DAN MURPHY is an educator and an author who splits his time between the wonderful and grand Irish community of Tilting, Fogo Island, and Corner Brook, Newfoundland and Labrador. He has co-authored eleven books that include environmental textbooks and canoe and sea kayak paddling guides. His poetry has appeared in Quills, Canadian Poetry Magazine; Rabbit Tales; Paragon IV, V, VI; Red River Review; The Tilting Expatriate; Fieldstone Review, The Scaldy Detail 2013 (Scallta Media, Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford), Crannog 28 (Galway Ireland), The Newfoundland Quarterly, and QWERTY (forthcoming) to name a few. An anthology of his work appeared in Humber Mouths 2 released during the 2010 April Rabbit and in 2011 he received a Newfoundland and Labrador and Letters award for poetry.

KATHI M. NIDD An Ottawa born author, Kathi’s passion is the creation of fictional short stories, and poems focusing on the interrelations of people, and spirits. She has had works published in CommuterLit magazine and The Haunted Waters Press and is currently marketing her first novel Coincidental Music while writing her first The Healings. A member of The Ottawa Story Spinners writing group, Nidd has six short stories published in their yearly anthologies The Black Lake Chronicles. When not writing or gardening, she work as a healthcare informatics consultant and spends free time immersed in the love of her husband and dog.

JEFF NIXON is a chimney sweep and amateur comedian born and raised in the prison-city of Kingston, Ontario. Now a young father and family man, his time is divided between dirty diapers, soot, and the allure of stage time.

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PATRICIA DIANE OLSON was born in Montreal in 1953 and lived for five years as a child in Prince Edward Island. She graduated in 1984 with a Master of Arts in English literature from University of Winnipeg. She has had several poems and articles published in a variety of journals. She particularly likes writing poetry, memoir and life-experience. She loves reading the works of Thomas Hardy as well as the tales of the Round Table.

JULIE PARRELL is a Queer Meits Poet living on Vancouver Island. She has used written words to express the of her mind and body for most of her life. When she was young her favorite authors were Judy Blume and Shel Silverstein. As she grew so did her reading choices. These days she finds herself engulfed in Joseph Boyden and Cathy Glass - a nice break from studying nutrition at Pacific Rim .

BONNIE QUAN SYMONS’ poems have been published in Vancouver Courier and Ricepaper magazine, and on-line poetry journals in United States and Australia. She writes poetry about relationships and her travels. She works at BC Teachers’ Federation and lives in Vancouver.

ROY ROBERTS, after many years in Vancouver has recently moved to Chilliwack. His poems have previously appeared in Quills IX, Prairie Fire, Prairie Journal, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal and a few regional anthologies.

REBECCA SALAZAR is managing editor of Qwerty and a founding editor of Sulphur. Her poetry appears in Dead Gender, terra north/nord, TaGueule, and in an anthology by Scrivener Press. She is completing an MA in creative writing at UNB.

WILHELMINA SALMI (b. 1978) is a writer and poet based in Vancouver BC. She is the co-editor/co-creator of the Post Feminist Post. She has performed at Verses , Summer Dreams Literary Festival and has featured both locally and internationally. Her writing has appeared in Quills Magazine and The Post Feminist Post. Her is titled “Perfect and Unwanted”.

TAI (no bio submitted)

ANDREA VAN NOORD is an Interdisciplinary PhD student at the University of Victoria. She works as an archivist and university instructor in the field of Holocaust Education. She wanted to study creative writing, but missed the application deadline. So things took a different turn.

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CRISTINA VIVIANI is the poet and photographer of the book Tafoni Natural Design and Weathered Stones. Her poems have been published in two ; Bone and Vertigo West/One. Room and Event will publish six of her poems in their issues. Cristina lives in Lion’s Bay, BC.

TY SPENCER VOSSLER (MFA) currently lives in Oaxaca, Mexico with his BMW (beautiful Mexican wife) and their daughter. Vossler has published novels, many short stories, poetry and essays. He attributes his originality to the fact that he shot his television over two decades ago.

JADE WALLACE rarely . Her work has previously been published by Feathertale, Poetry Sz, and Grey Borders Books. Her “She Dined A Thousand Times” appears in the chapbook Pac’n Heat: Ms. Pac-Man Noir, edited by Terri Favro and A.G. Pasquella.

IRIS WILDE lives in Toronto. She studied and Writing at university. She’s had short essays and stories published in Canadian journals. Her story ‘Big Skirt’ won first prize in Geist’s Postcard Story Contest. Iris is working on a novel.

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