Mother Hindustan In the years that you have been inked into a map, laid down, unraveled, all corners of you outstretched,  with man who has always crossed at your borders, you have sung the songs and poems of martyrs. But will another song ever be sung? Your tongue was made of the lakes from the Kashmir Valley. You still hold it still. Even as your children suckle from you, bite down, swallow blood, when they  fear the milk will stop flowing.  You still hold your tongue still.   All of your children were born under the  mountains of your body and the stars from your eyes.  All of your children fell asleep to the coolness of your  breath. But forgot its sweet lullaby.  But, none ever forget the sounds of burning flesh.     They…

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A New Short-Short Fiction by Janelle Hardacre Editor’s Note: Ever wonder what goes through the mind of a fish and chips cook? Wonder no more. ** I collect things to tell her. Did you know that ‘never odd or even’ is the same backwards and forwards? I think she’d like that. Some of the things in the collection are white lies; like that her mam didn’t wanna see me anymore because I could never get the grease stink out. It’s getting busier. I slide the slice under the fish, check that the batter isn’t burning, then pull across the Perspex door. The hiss of the fryer blocks out the small talk of the server lasses. Every time I go to shake the chip baskets I see her name in flicky writing on my arm, so…

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A Caprice of Nature the earth, a drop of cerulean dew in a black puddle ocean of space, whirls on its news paper axis, while I walk by portland amazed at a barber seated in his cutting chair — he plays paganini on a violin. the ancients thought the soul capable of re-remembering life if asked precise questions such acuity would provide a channel through which the mind and heart might flow   as a modern when i again experience what an ancient knew i see the might and decay of empire wane and glow   in the yes of joy in the no of sorrow   time a current of mystery with its own tug and pull rushes my spirit within its tidal pulse   knowledge re–born is useless without wisdom as a sage…

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A Woman Who Paints Saturated sky, two figures buta suggestion near a yellow blushof wheat. The eye regards, sensesthe repetition of hours, a trajectoryof absence, a pause. Whatcollection of brushstrokes emergesfrom this woman, dismissed or chided,discouraged or sick of the moon’sromantic lies. To choose this roundedshape, smear of viridian, she bravesthe tyranny of time and place, her children and the hungryhouse, all that love regrets. When she paints, she is betweenellipses, melds hand and eye,draws in the gases of the sun,exhales this field, empty of wind,and these two who might be toilingor traveling or devoted. Message intention of rootsdown and around earth seethes invisibly,a conjunction of hunger the knowing of treeto tree, beyond a pale, cream sky the wind is emphaticleaves, unanchored, blood red to dun brown,become a handful of flakes mingled with bird wingand seed, November’s pulse of loss I…

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Dementia I can’t find the word. Somewhere, in the swirling mist of my mind, I know it’s there. Just out of reach. I chase it but it skips away from me as it laughs. It doesn’t want to be caught today. I used to use it, the word, with such ease. It would trip off my tongue, along with a lot of other words, to make sentences, stories, jokes. A whole river of words, ever-present. Unappreciated, until now. Now, I would give anything for this one word—the perfect word—to say just what I mean. For the uncomprehending face which frowns before me to clear and shine with understanding. Still the word prances, dances, teases me as I reach out to grab it. Always on the periphery, never centre stage. I begin to get angry. I…

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