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Untitled photograph by Jennifer McClure
July 2015

from the series

Photograph by Frank Hallam Day
June 2015

Ship Hull #18, photograph by Frank Hallam Day

Alice Lowe
May 2015

        My husband calls me the “energizer bunny,” says my hummingbird metabolism matches my bird-brittle frame, says what I call my low-energy days are more animated than his at top speed, even though when we met, our youth behind us, I’d slowed down to a mellower pace, and we’re yin and yang now, we balance each other, but thirty years ago we’d have been oil and water—“You shoulda seen me then,” I say and tell him about my younger self, a scrawny kid, my worried parents thought me frail and undernourished in spite of my voracious appetite and boundless energy, so my mother would pack two overstuffed sandwiches in my lunch with chips, fruit and cookies, and after school she’d make milkshakes with eggs and banana plus a PBJ or two to fatten me up, but I would eat and eat and not gain an ounce, and that was still true at thirty when a boyfriend told me I’d be sexier, more attractive if I put on a few pounds; he found no fault at first, but soon started carping about one thing or another, like—it should have been a warning—when I said I wasn’t a good dancer but he sweet-talked me onto the floor and I waited for praise, however false—come on, flatter me—but “You’re a terrible dancer,” he said, “stiff as a board, lighten up,” and I slithered away humiliated, but when he said, “You should wear more makeup,” I did—pathetic, huh?—and his reproach followed me into the bedroom until finally I’d had enough of his verbal battering, but at least I never tried to gain weight for him, and in fact the stress of the weeks and months as the relationship ground down caused me to lose weight, “ha, that’ll show him,” I thought, and after we split, the taut strings of my psyche loosened and I relaxed and gained a few pounds, and when I ran into him months later he noticed and said something grudgingly complimentary, and I smirked, I said yes, it’s amazing what being happy can do for a girl’s figure, and while I’m older and happier now I still move quickly and stay trim though I work at it now, stop eating before I’m full, because I can still put it away. Like a hummingbird.
        Did you know that hummingbirds consume more than their weight in nectar each day but are always mere hours away from starving to death since they store just enough energy to survive overnight, so they visit hundreds of flowers daily and remember all the flowers, all the feeders in their territory, eating for short spells seven times an hour yet spending only fifteen percent of their time feeding and the rest of it digesting and maybe, like me, planning and thinking about and tracking down the next meal, the next sip of fuchsia or slice of pizza.

David Feela
April 2015

A pot of tea steeping
on the marble sill, its steam
clouding the window.

Sunrise on the counter
like the yolk of a broken egg,
oh happy disaster of morning.

All is settled then, the man
still asleep, the woman
keeping this time for herself

beside the sink, thinking of every
beginning and ending she's known
before filling her cup.

Oil on canvas, 30" x 30"
Samantha Haring
March 2015

Discard, oil on canvas by Samantha Haring

Oil on birch panel, 36" x 48"
Robert Porazinski
February 2015

Hybrid IV, oil on birch panel by Robert Porazinski

Michael G. Smith
January 2015

stops,
      fingers a volcanic outcrop
            roofed mostly in duplex lichen,
                  one of the tenacious earthmakingmen
                        helming a weathering like and unlike

wind
      and sun and rain – thick-skinned
            operatives saturated with clarity
                  at times breezy, bright and merry,
                        their many modes furthering the world's

en-
      jambment – recomposing log nurses ten
            alders, elfin firs to sprout in their future
                  shadows, nothing microminor
                        about a percolated spring's rambles to an icy

creek's
      once-in-many-decades flood wreaking
            pick-up-stick behemoth-log dams'
                  slow-pooled jamb
                        trout rests and paper-packed poets'

writs
      of bits
            into bosomed ash-heaps
                  head-deep
                        in the tree-tower boughs sifting the given

light.

This poem was written while the author was a writing resident of the Spring Creek Project (Oregon State University) at the HJ Andrews Experimental Forest.

Photograph by Tina Leto
December 2014

Dandelion Seeds, photograph by Tina Leto

Danielle Susi
November 2014

Each hue is defined by wave length
or frequency. How often or far apart.
The inconvenience of closeness, or
the memory of longing for
harmonic intervals of light
filtered through the human eye

and, sometimes, the mechanical eye,
yet how we discriminate these wave lengths
is not well understood (in light
of other things we know) and apart
from corresponding frequencies for
each prismatic color or

manifestation of color or
what resides harmoniously in the eye,
there is an equivalent harmony for
the musical ear, which collects length
and time, and, in turn, plays a part
in the generation of light

but cannot identify single tones of light,
like notes fingered on a piano or
a cello plucked as part
of an orchestra performed at the center of the eye.
To take red, any length
of red, and mistake it for

the afterimage of green, for
the deposit of complementary light,
is to speak of harmony to some length
and the joining of two or
more colors behind the eye,
pretending like vision is not a part

of what makes the body a part
of a machine for
forgetting. What makes the eye
not a tool for collecting, but for losing light.
To suggest that the human eye is satisfied, or
in equilibrium, is to deny the comfort of length,

the redemption of length,
the restlessness of length, or
the longing for memory of light.

Hilary Brown
October 2014

grew from my mother’s fingers, sprouting
in the dirt under her nails and sending
their shoots through her veins.

Her lungs were filled with bitter earth.

Her feet became clay and crumbled under
the weight of trees. Hyacinths took root
in her liver and lilacs

perfumed the air too sweet.

Roses sprung from her womb.
We picked their berries
for our tea.

Oil on panel, 14" x 11.75"
Brett Eberhardt
September 2014

A History of Painting, oil on panel by Brett Eberhardt

Two prints by Megan Sterling
August 2014

Above Water; etching, woodcut, and monotype by Megan Sterling Hollow Roots; woodcut, monotype, and silkscreen by Megan Sterling

Above Water
Etching, woodcut, and monotype
20" x 8"

Hollow Roots
Woodcut, monotype, and silkscreen
19" x 8.5"

Donna Vorreyer
July 2014

There has been a small fire, burnt
tar-paper in a wastebasket, an accident
of no consequence, really—a thimbleful

of water tamed the blaze—but somewhere
buildings are burning, and I feel it is my
fault, like I have called the flames from

the cold sky with my witchcraft of longing.
I watch a calf being birthed in a pasture
surrounded by high red cliffs. I boil fresh

eggs still warm from soft underbellies
of chickens. These things are pleasant, yet
undeserved. At night, I sit with my books.

Somewhere, a fish is being angled for
off-shore. The hook in its mouth makes me
seasick, metal taste rising in my throat

like an anonymous threat. I keep changing
my address, shift from hotel to rooming
house, just to avoid the hook, the reeling in.

Oil on panel, 17" x 17"
Bo Bartlett
June 2014

Soap, oil on panel by Bo Bartlett

Liz Dolan
May 2014

As a child
I listened
most
to what was
not said

to the chasm
between
the spoken words
that floated out
and hung
in the air
like morning mist

to the soft sighs
between
the soft syllables
to the breaths
between
the Oh… yes
and the Maybe… so

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