THE CITY KEY

“Maastricht, 1496” by Jake Price

I never noticed architecture
until you kissed the flutes
in my cheekbones.
–
We sat on a park bench,
hands clasped together,
watching strangers and pointing out dormer noses
and bay window eye sockets.
My body turns to rubble when you smile.
I would never tell you that.
–
The arch of your spine, facade to facade,
Romanesque afternoons mixed with wine
and latticework and I exist I exist I exist.
–

We used a crumbling statue as an ashtray.

I want to marry you here and then go back to the States

and forget about you.

Jake

Jake Price is a junior at Susquehanna University pursuing a degree in Creative Writing and a minor in Art History. He was born in Texas and currently resides in McConnellsburg Pennsylvania. He spends most of his time reading his work to his cat, Raven, who has yet to give him any feedback. His poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories, The Poet Magazine, and The Viridian Door. His short fiction has been published in Cream Scene Carnival and Querencia Press.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.

“Waking with the City” by Judith Rosner

How I love when Florence wakes and
we share the day’s beginning together.

I walk on stones polished by centuries of wear
as I sip my cappuccino and watch the moon

give up his seat to sun as she rises behind me
lighting buildings birthed in Middle Ages.

I check out recently shined shop windows
as street lamps blow out like birthday candles.

The Duomo, looming large, preens for me,
showing off her white and green marble stripes.

I wave as I pass, happy to see her before she is
blocked from view by tourists as they pose for pictures.

Statues lining piazzas flex their chiseled muscles
reminding me it’s time to plan my day.

Judith

Judith Rosner’s poetry appears in the literary journal HerWords, the Living Peace 2019 Art of Poetry Anthology, the Jewish Literary Journal, the Gulf Coast Poets Anthology, Harmonic Verse, and the Bards Against Hunger 10 Year Anniversary Anthology. She holds a doctorate in sociology and retired from a successful career as professor, leadership developer, and executive coach. Judy and her husband split their time between Sarasota, Florida and New York City.

“A Walk Through Town” by VA Wiswell

My favorite sweater, beautiful wool
cables burnt an olive green,
a fleet of the moment, flea
market purchase,
previously owned, I’d bet
money, by Father Time,
scratches my skin. A
living reminder, an existential
answer:
I itch; therefore, I am.

On my street, storefront lakes
of concrete and glass stretch
into infinity, I think to paddle
past, not in need or
want of anything, instead,
always in want and need of
something, I stop to peer at
the glittery trinkets napping on
their velvety pillows, bored of
the endless admiration. In the
window, a face of youth absconded
joins me. I imagine, then, a cartoony
thief sneakily stealing year after
year, their crime unnoticed by this
poor stranger until too late.

Inside my favorite house,
affluent Arabica air, infused
with stranger-to-stranger
conversation, I wander to the
counter and toss my order,
complete in two extinct words:
Black drip,
onto the barista’s counter.
Behind me, in the line of my past,
a thousand soft-skin dinosaurs
celebrate my retrogression by
stomping and laughing loudly.
With my order, molten lava
secured in a throwaway paper
cup, I stay for a beat, daring to dip
my toes into the house’s blend.
Around me, human thumbs crouch
like lions, hovering over bright
screens of prey, restless to swipe
at the first flash of light. Clutching
only my coffee, I stand out, a herring
in a field,
bright
and golden.

Later, after hours locked in my time
capsule, a windowless space
heated with historical dust, I
manage to compress thoughts
that escaped days into bite-sized
bites, ideal for storage and
effortless consumption and
guilt-free disposal.

Now, I stand lectern sturdy,
self-examined to the
bone, before a passel of
glossy, scrolling eyes,
a galaxy vast and black,
and listen to the leak of
a lifetime escaping
between us.

VA Wiswell lives outside Seattle, WA, with her human and animal family. Her work has appeared in Writing In a Woman’s Voice, The Lake, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, 34th Parallel Magazine, Sad Girls Literary Magazine, Ignatian Literary Magazine, and OJA & L Magazine. She has poems and short stories forthcoming in Front Porch Review and Crab Creek Review. You can find her on Instagram at @vawiswell and http://www.vawiswell.com

“Standing at the Edge of the World” by Christen Lee

Dylan, Cohen, and Cash wail melodies against the night sky,
sound waves amplified by these four walls
on which your own story is written in love and loss.

There’s something about the way you find hope
without hoping,
solace without soliciting, meaning without divining.
Just being here feels like salvation.

You’re not indifferent to this life you live
with its silver carpets, holly and honeysuckle-lined streets,
peeling birch and towering oak trees.
Just look at the azure sky, brandishing jewels on this golden
November day
where, together, we walk the crystal coastline,
press our feet into cool shallows,
steady our gaze upon an ocean that stretches beyond
the gold horizon.

In your backyard, grapefruit, lime and persimmon trees
sway with last season’s sweetness.
There are a thousand names for reinvention—
beauty begetting beauty, awakening from winter’s blight.
Today, you gather fresh mustard greens, cilantro,
blend hot chilies into chutney, simmer curry on the
stovetop.

We are so much more than what we make,
more than this returning bounty,
more than these cycles of giving and dying,
more than this hillside where you lead me
to show me the glowing city.

You could have all this, you say, tiny worlds
dancing at our feet,
dust and shadow parting ways for the starlight in our eyes.
You could make another life out here, but you know,
you can’t escape the hurt.
Even what’s lost can find you. It can buoy you
or it can drown you.

Keep close the memory of all who’ve gone before you.
Press your heart against the jagged edges of your pain
and bleed a bittersweet offering.

Savor the good, the unfiltered, the unholy potion,
ripened beneath an enchanted sun.
Believe in everything that brought you here,
while trusting nothing that promises you forever.

The world withers, you say.
Everything, someday, goes away.
But even then, even at the very end,
we’ll still be standing here.
Somewhere at the edge of the world.

Christen Lee

Christen Lee is a family nurse practitioner in Cleveland, Ohio. Her writing has been featured in Rue Scribe, The Write Launch, Aurora, Humans of the World, Sad Girls Club, 2022 New Generation Beats Anthology, Wingless Dreamer, The Voices of Real 7 Compilation, Ariel Chart, The Elevation Review, and Moot Point among others.

“Above the City Tracks” by Alexander Etheridge

The train moves far below this tower room
with a sound like a slowly drawn-out gunfire,
a strangely underworld story
unfolding—a question to an answer, coming apart
inside the mind. In the landscape of God’s ceaseless
memory, human thought grows backward and turns
from snow into time. In those outer fields, forgotten prayers
are common as dustgrains, and shreds of hope
define themselves on a background of burning seeds
and jagged hail. At a certain point, joy becomes an answer
to ongoing silence, like the peace of a star as it begins
collapsing, a spellbound amnesia returning to the heart,
and leaves of grief becoming rain on the rail line.

Alexander

Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in The Potomac Review, Museum of Americana, Ink Sac, Welter Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, Roi Faineant Press, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999, and a finalist for the Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize in 2022. He is the author of, God Said Fire, and the forthcoming, Snowfire and Home.

“Daydreams and Prayers in the City” by Alexander Etheridge

I can see what I want in people—You, stranger,
I think to myself, you with the empty gaze

are the beautiful Eden snake, and you with the sad eyes
are an apple from the one forbidden tree.

I can see in the world another world.
I can dream up apocalypse or creation

in any landscape, corner, or shadow of the city.
Why else should I go anywhere, and why else

should I look into anything? I bring with me everywhere
a few grains of nightmare and paradise, I keep them hidden

in my pockets with my pen and my crumpled paper. What now
gives me faith in anything? The barely discriminating love

of dogs, the judgelessness of dusk and dawn,
the absolute indifference of black empty galaxies,

and all that exists without a question—
Even in the punishing chill of my mind,

I can find a shred of love, a thread of
compassion—they live there without a doubt,

or need of gratitude. I pray they imprint onto me
their pure design, their ancient elegance,

even in fields of hail, or on mountains of frost—
In the ongoing cold I look for salvation. Find me,

I say, find me even now, where I’m without name
or shape, or even a memory of light.

Alexander

“Strange Flowers” by Alexander Etheridge

Strange Flowers
—after Tom Waits

In that deep uncanny
world, dark blue clouds
ride low,
raining all night—
The crowded metropolis
is long hushed.
Everyone there is

an orphan leaving behind
their opulent palaces.
They’re all out

on the stormy streets, roving
and wordless.
Black ivy

grows over empty chapels
where crows fly in
through broken stained glass,
nesting in the high
rafters. Hooded figures kneel

in flooding gutters,
with their snakes
and torn prayer books.

And flowers never seen before
grow up through
cracked concrete
in ruins of the great
city

where every sound
but the rain
is extinct.

Alexander

“A City of Wish and Tone” by William Doreski

The brilliant pinpricks of light
I see when I shut my eyes
are glimpses of neon glamor
in a city I wish I could visit.
It’s a mass of granite and steel,

bronze and glass architecture
festooned with laughter and screams
more rowdy than even Times Square.
You don’t believe this city exists.
You think it’s hopeful thinking

applied to prismatic effects
shattered by my fragile eyesight.
Often I dream of long avenues
undulating over rolling ground,
framed by marmoreal buildings

displaying taverns and pawnshops.
These are the outskirts. The city
itself lingers out of my reach.
I can’t walk through miles of crime
to reach the horizon spiked

with flamboyant geometries
architects and engineers admire
for their leverage against the sky.
You claim this city’s an amalgam
of Shanghai, Manhattan, Dubai.

You challenge me to anchor it
to a page in the Times atlas
or find online photos of streets
that web the city I imagine.
The pinpricks of light are rich

enough to prove this city exists.
Its secrets blaze red, blue, green
in a dimension I can’t share with you
because you’d only deflate it
with a gesture brisk as a scythe’s.

william-doreski175

William Doreski has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Venus, Jupiter (2023). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals. He is a regular poetry reviewer for The Harvard Review.

“1952 – The Biltmore Hotel” by DC Diamondopolous

For the past year, Irene had stayed home grieving for her husband. Now, she was ready to live again, but without Robert. Her new life would begin tonight in downtown Los Angeles at one of her favorite places, the Biltmore Hotel.

The lavender tails of her Hermès scarf fluttered as she entered the limousine and slid in beside her best friend. The fragrance of Beatrice’s White Shoulders perfume gave her comfort.

Beatrice reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’s good to see you, dear. Thank you for inviting me to this important occasion.”

“It’s good to be with you too,” Irene said.

“I can’t wait to hear Yogananda speak.”

For the past seven years, Beatrice had been a patron of the Indian guru and studied yoga and meditation at his headquarters in Mount Washington.

Beatrice patted her poodle cut with the palm of her hand. “Do you think it’s too short, dear?”

“It becomes you.”

The chauffeur navigated the driveway of Irene’s South Pasadena estate. As she surveyed the grounds, the feathers in her hat swept across the roof. The jacaranda tree had dropped its winter leaves, a golden buttery hue. In two months it would bloom purple. Robert would never see that splendid display again.

“I’ve missed you, dear. The French twist is so attractive, especially with that hat. And the scarf goes beautifully with your auburn hair.”

“I feel fragile. Like I’ll break.”

Beatrice moved her matronly body next to Irene’s and put her hand on top of hers. “Of course you do.”

Irene drew strength from her friend’s closeness. They had met ten years before when they were docents at the Huntington Hartford Museum.

“You’ve been so kind. The baskets of food and flowers were lovely,” Irene said. “And the phone calls. Brief as I made them.”

“I’ve missed our afternoon teas at the Biltmore, and here we are,” Beatrice chuckled, “on our way there.” She removed her hand. “I’m glad you chose to come out for Ambassador Sen. You’ve done so much to help the people of India.”

“Helping others is what saved me from despair.”

Years ago, when she and Robert had visited India, she was appalled by the starvation, disease, and poverty. After months of mourning, she delved once again into her charity work with India. She wrote letters, made telephone calls, and sent tens of thousands of dollars to help with the suffering. For her generosity, Irene was invited to dinner at the Biltmore Hotel to honor India’s Ambassador Binay Ranjan Sen. The name of the guest speaker caught her attention, Paramahansa Yogananda.

After Robert’s death, Beatrice encouraged her to see the yogi. Irene declined. She was suspicious of all things other-worldly—yet Irene saw a change in Beatrice. Her friend was happier, expanded her endowments, and had enormous energy for a woman of fifty-six, fourteen years her senior.

Thrilled with the invitation, Beatrice said she’d pick her up on the way from her home in San Marino.

The limo turned onto Fair Oaks Avenue.

On this late winter evening, as the sun vanished below the Pacific, Irene found Ambassador Sen and Yogananda’s presence together at the Biltmore—ironic.

“You’ll finally get to hear him. What Yogananda has brought to this country is immeasurable, that we can know God through meditation.”

Irene sighed. “You know I’m agnostic.”

“So you’ve said.” Beatrice laughed. “I’m not saying you’ll have an epiphany, dear. But you’ll enjoy him. He has a wonderful sense of humor.”

The chauffeur drove up the freeway ramp and headed toward downtown Los Angeles.

“The skyline will always remind me of Robert,” Irene said. From her husband, she had learned about architecture—functionality, durability, quality, and asceticism. His buildings were modern, innovative, and sleek. She grew to love the older ones, too—like the Biltmore—as Robert had. “He had so many plans for the city.”

“He was a great architect. We were both lucky to have such wonderful husbands. Even though their lives were cut short, we were fortunate to know and love them. It’s been over fifteen years, and I still talk to Lloyd.”

“I wish I had known him.”

“So do I. My, you can still see orchard groves to the south and meadows. It’s no wonder Yogananda was guided to come west. Open fields, open minds, land of possibilities.”

Her friend’s enthusiasm often conflicted with Irene’s skepticism. “I still can’t believe Robert’s gone. I wish I knew he was all right.”

“Yogananda says that when death comes, mortal tortures cease. They can’t go beyond the portals of death.” She leaned over and whispered, “I know Robert’s fine.”

“No one really knows what happens when we die, certainly not that TV evangelist Billy Graham. Or Yogananda.” She bristled at religious leaders who professed to know everything. “Isn’t Yogananda just another cult?”

“Hardly, my dear.”

Cars and limousines jammed the off-ramp at 6th Street.

They inched down the incline in bumper-to bumper traffic.

Huge excavators towered in the sky above Pershing Square.

The park held a special place in Irene’s memory. In 1930, when she and Robert picnicked on the grounds, he proposed to her. She loved many things about him, and his light-heartedness brightened her reserved nature. During the war, he and his buddies performed in a drag show. She didn’t see it, but the pictures of him made her laugh so hard tears streamed down her face. He was a handsome man but a frightful looking female, especially with the five o’clock shadow.

They turned onto Olive Street.

In twilight, Los Angeles with its silhouettes and concrete reminded her of a black-and-white movie.

The limo parked in front of the Biltmore.

Rich in history, the hotel had hosted the Academy Awards several times. For their 16th anniversary, Irene and Robert stayed in the same suite as the Duke and Dutchess of Windsor. Visitors insisted that the ghost of a young boy roamed the third floor. At midnight, Robert left and went looking for him. He returned ten minutes later. “Maybe if we finish off the bottle of champagne, we’ll both see him.” They laughed, and he drew her onto the bed.

* * *

An attendant opened the door.

“Thank you,” Irene said, staring up at the tall archway.

Dozens of people were arriving and entering the Biltmore.

The two companions walked arm-in-arm into the lobby.

The hotel with it’s elaborate wrought iron lattice railing, enormous four-tiered chandeliers, the brown satin sofas and chairs, were just as Irene remembered. Two years before, Robert had given a speech. She could still hear his deep, vibrant voice. His descriptions of modernism in architecture were exciting and vivid.

Passing through the foyer, they encountered security guards and East Indians.

At the banquet door, Irene gave the usher her invitation.

They entered the hall. For the ambassador’s first visit to California, the room was filled to capacity, and Irene was overjoyed with the turnout, the people engaged in conversation, and the overall sense of anticipation.

Irene and Beatrice’s table was close to rostrum. They both faced the dais.

Ambassador Sen and his wife arrived. She was stunning in a white dress with a fringed Indian shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Irene looked forward to meeting them.

Following the diplomat’s wife was the man who inspired her best friend and millions of Americans. Paramahansa Yogananda’s charisma overshadowed his short stature and portly appearance. Black hair fell to the shoulders of his ochre robe. She found his brown face serene, his countenance—as Beatrice often mentioned—inviting.

She had her doubts about him but would try to keep an open mind.

Yogananda smiled at Beatrice. He put his palms together, hands up, and bowed his head. She returned the gesture.

The host made introductions.

Yogananda walked to the lectern. A hush spread across the room.

He introduced the ambassador and his wife, made mention of the late Mahatma Gandhi, who applied Christ’s principles to politics and won freedom for India. He repeated the words, “My India, my America.”

“World nations and men are all a little bit crazy,” Yogananda said.

Irene agreed.

When the guru talked of a model civilization where all nations would form a United World, with God guiding them through their conscience, applause broke out.

Irene found it incredible that politicians could ever agree on anything.

Yogananda continued with how India and America could learn from each other. He talked of focusing on the good qualities of a nation and said, “I remember that just before I first came to America in 1920, I was warned by Hindu friends never to go in dark alleys, lest my scalp be removed by Red Indians! And whenever I saw a bald-headed man, I thought some Indians had been at work!”

Laughter erupted.

Beatrice glanced at Irene and winked.

He continued his speech about the industriousness of America and the Hindu’s concentration on building spiritual skyscrapers of the mind. “Somewhere between the two great civilizations of efficient America and spiritual India lies the answer for a model world civilization.”

As the audience sat spellbound, his lyrical voice filled the room. Irene thought him a poet, a dreamer. Once in a while, his gaze lifted upwards with just the whites of his eyes showing. His words inspired, but how could there ever be world peace?

“If we can raise money for wholesale killings, couldn’t we picture the possibility that if all big leaders and all peoples got together, they could collect a vast fund that would banish poverty and ignorance from the face of the globe?”

Irene knew he had the best intentions but was doubtful, knowing that millions of people followed someone like Hitler.

He proceeded. “I am proud that I was born in India. I am proud that we have a great ambassador representing my spiritual India.”

The crowd applauded.

Yogananda read from his poem, “My India.”

“God made the earth, and man made confining countries and their fancy-frozen boundaries. Where Ganges, woods, Himalayan caves, and men dream God—I am hallowed, my body touched that sod.”

With those words, Paramahansa Yogananda slumped to the floor.

Someone shrieked.

People on the stage rushed to his side. Security guards spoke into walkie-talkies.

Beatrice jumped up, spilling water, and ran around the platform to the guru.

Irene stood. “Is there a doctor here?” she shouted, scanning the audience.

Guests zigzagged around tables to get to the yogi.

Beatrice hunched over. Tears glistened on her cheeks as she looked at her friend.

In a split second, Irene saw a blur—or was it an apparition? It floated away from the dais and disappeared. In disbelief, she covered her mouth with her hand. Her fear of death fled, replaced by an inner calm. Irene could question what she saw, even deny it, but not what she felt.

As people tried to save him, she knew Yogananda had died.

Weeping, Beatrice made her way to their table.

“Yogananda always said when he left, all that would remain would be his love.”

Irene held her friend tight. “I’m so sorry.”

The older woman pulled back and brushed away tears.

“One of the disciples said Yogananda knew he would leave tonight. I myself heard him say, ‘I do not wish to die in bed, but with my boots on, speaking of God and India.’ It was his time.”

“I know. Just as it was Robert’s.”

DOROTHY 1

DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story, and flash fiction writer with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC’s stories have appeared in: Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, and others. DC has two published collections of short stories, Stepping Up and Captured Up Close (20th Century Short-Short Stories). She was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and twice for Best of the Net Anthology. She lives on the California coast with her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com

“Royal Street 2020” by Theresa Pisani

Theresa Pisani has been a fine artist and professional muralist for many years, with a focus on capturing the light on her subjects, whether it be dawn or dusk, night, or a cloudy day.

She is also an animator, illustrator, and has lived and worked in the redwoods in Sonoma county, California and Orcas Island, Washington. Today she divides her time between New Orleans and California.