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  November 2016
volume 13 number 2
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Inalegwu Omapada Alifa
  Maria A Arana
  Shawn Aveningo
  Wendy Bourke
  Jack G. Bowman
  Alan Britt
  Adam Levon Brown
  Jeffrey Bryant
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Alicia Carpenter
  Natalie Crick
  Carla Criscuolo
  Frank De Canio
  Marvin Louis Dorsey
  Miguel Eichelberger
  John LaMar Elison
  Gabriella Garofalo
  Dave Houston
  Dani Raschel Jiménez
  Scott C. Kaestner
  Sofia Kioroglou
  Deborah P Kolodji
  Rick Lupert
  Donal Mahoney
  Afric McGlinchey
  Frank Mundo
  Chika Onyenezi
  Adam Phillips
  Bethany W Pope
  Nydia Rojas
  Diana Rosen
  Walter Ruhlmann
  Papa Vic
  mailing list
Bethany W Pope
November 2016



photo by marie c lecrivain

    Bethany W Pope is an award winning writer. She received her PhD from Aberystwyth University's Creative Writing program, and her MA from the University of Wales Trinity St David. She has published several collections of poetry: A Radiance (Cultured Llama, 2012), Crown of Thorns (Oneiros Books, 2013), The Gospel of Flies (Writing Knights Press 2014), and Undisturbed Circles (Lapwing, 2014). Her collection The Rag and Boneyard, was published October 2016 by Indigo Dreams and her chapbook Among The White Roots, Will be released by Three Drops Press next Autumn 2017. Her first novel, Masque, was published by Seren in June 2016.



Bone Flute

Long ago, deep among the humped salt dunes
of a nameless desert, a half-starved man
heard a wind-borne, susurrating voice "God"
keening low and sweet, disturbing fragments
of silica, the exoskeletons
of long-dead scorpions. The voice asked him,
'Son of man, son of man; can these bones live?
The valley was filled with sharp connections.

Long ago, on the floor of a men's room,
warm, feminine urine burned into the
sockets of my eyes. The hard, wooden shaft
of a broom pressed into my throat. I passed
into the grey space where dead voices speak
and the air is filled with the sound of sucked
marrow. I lay on cool tiles, hollowed; pithed.

The voice of God tears away tender flesh
until only the essentials remain.
For the instrument to sing, all excess,
all comfort, must be stripped, holes must be drilled,
hope lost - this is also resurrection.
The dead become pipes for God to sing through.
It is a painful, splendid kind of song.

copyright 2016 Bethany W Pope