Featured Poet: Jennifer Arcuni

Look closely:

do you see the faces in the waves?

They are the faces of ancients,

their worn features carved by the

endless turmoil of the sea.

You stand at the edge of a cliff,

overlooking a beach with dark sand,

an overcast glare bouncing off the water

like an echo.

Do you see them now?

Right there, can you make out

the faces of the old men?

Their wrinkles are ripples in the tide,

white foam curves over their heads.

Their eyes extend deep to hidden reefs,

their lips rise and fall with the current.

A gull glides over the water to greet the men,

veering just close enough to catch the froth of the waves.

You make your way down to the water’s edge,

casting smooth pebbles and sea shells

across the surface.

And for a moment,

the men are gone.

The tide has taken them,

along with your skipping stones.

But be patient.

Keep watching.

You will see them again.

Their faces in the waves will always be

waiting there.

there are two worlds.

dearest, like in a pharmaceutical ad

at least                     or               was

a flower-end

of the world       but only sometimes                           rock your little boat                                               for every

stolen bicycle spin a wheel in the sky

how to get

<sip> from here                                                            ⎮sub⎮     ⎮or⎮ continent

to: and back                                               berrily, berrily grab

a branch and pull

A Genealogy

We are talking about who looks like

who again             (although      he looks most like me and I am nobody's mother yet)       and why

this is a compelling argument in one child's favor.

You were lucky, I thought. You

had a trellis, a reason for rose feed, two

children, small, and time off. And this reasoning

was a linear thing, as if first travelling to Milan and then happening upon and then lining up for an

antique car show around the piazza del duomo. I suddenly wanted to say I no longer tolerate flower

parades or the infinity of bulbs. That a ferrari eats road, that

I ached to tolerate jasmine and statues that moved with the light sources, arguing with the sky. That I

had seen a man get up and carry his flayed skin home.

Jennifer Arcuni‘s writing has appeared in various mediums and literary publications, including Xantippe and Bateau.  She received her MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California. She is currently a poetry editor for the journal Versal, where poems of hers have previously appeared.  Originally a US east-coaster, she found herself at home in the Netherlands for many years. Jennifer now lives and writes in Northern California.