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Select Poetry by MAKAELA SHEALY

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We are pleased to offer the following select poetry from playwright, artist and actress, Makaela Shealy

 

BENTLEY

Apparently in each and every galaxy, center is directly attached to the individual:

asteroid belt, ocean tides, a person on a rooftop looking through a telescope,

someone watching them.

If it hinges on perspective, when we close our eyes, naturally it follows that

we slip back into the void (an argument for attention).

The known universe bends to an hourglass shape and drops sand-grain style into place

and you have to wonder, if everyone is looking all at once,

if all the plants are swaying, the shark alert, the baby crying, the atoms buzzing, the sun blazing;

how does our tiny earth resist the pull?

Where is the single point that we must drift  to

and is it inevitable

and are we finite

or in a constant state of being reinvented?

Do all those moms on shamanic juice cleanses have it figured out?

Perhaps Isaac will come back as a wave of light,

travel further than our fixed temporal shells can go,

he won’t get distracted by jam and the way it drips from a certain someone’s teeth.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Black Cords, Silver Zipper

Tiny wishes she begs god on the back of her bathroom mirror

for one more piece to land

for the glass to heal spider vein reverse time

peel glitter back like a scab

Keep riding dig deep until you choke the laces into a bow pick your hed up toss your hair

throw back the bottom of whatever last night left

And hear the opening chords of maybe this time echo in your toilet bowl

25 and feeling too old for ashtrays and promised lands

For slipping through a closing door before midnight and telling mom and dad I’m. just. Fine.

I have a therapist

And a weed dealer for when she’s out of town

And a lover who likes to find new inches of my body to conquer when I’m asleep

I know the east coast and sweat stains have left their lashes on my sink

And somewhere I smell pine

Or just old spice, think about the pews I listened from before I could see past a hymnal

The red-faced clown I let replace my nightmares about birds

Who yelled his way to heaven every weekend and made me hate black hair that’s wet

I wanted out and you got in just before my eyes clicked clock tick shut

You greet me lazy smile and drowned green eyes and I nickname you something trite

You said i gave you a better past to pull from when you write

My tongue ties a slipknot around your ribcage and suddenly you don’t even want to breathe

You listen when I hold my hand to your lips and whisper wait.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A poem about a place I’ve lived.

Once I got so lonely that I lived on an island for 7 long years.

At the end of my self imposed sentence I tore open my blanketed eyes

salt water rushed out and back in

dipping toes, testing light

I woke up in the shade above La Boulangerie

where warm rough hands piled worry into yeast and let it rise in the dark.

When I was small, I didn’t believe in princesses, miracles, Santa Claus, faith;

I trusted patterns, repetition and what I could make with my hands.

Quicksand fists I learned to reign in the pop to sink

into things I’d have to set back free.

Something like a necklace clasp, soft 14 karat gold, seared flesh in summer.

The smell of orange knocks me and I make myself a monument on crimson bricks. If I stay here I will not go back there

If I stay here I will go back to sleep If I stay here I will not say yes, yes.

Soft quilted yellow sheets, four poster bed, writing desk she sat like this and sent him sheets to

Normandy. I have never learned to spell his name.

The place I box myself into is step by step a replica of hers.

The way I carry shame and grief for them is layered peeling paint around my neck.

Collared with history, “clothed in dignity,”

I stack the pennies from the ground heads up and roll them in my pocket as I leave.

by Makaela Shealy

Makaela Shealy Candid Close upMakaela Shealy (she/her) is a poet, playwright, and artist currently residing in New York City with her Hufflepuff Cat, Mu. She often publishes under the pen-name M. Dae. For Women Who Roar showcased several of her pieces during their Seattle, WA performance. Her work can be found online in Muse Pie Press’ Shotglass Journal Vol. #28, Allegory Ridge’s debut anthology: Aurora, and on her website: www.makaelashealy.com. Clay Girl is her completed chapbook

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Stephanie & Wayne

About Stephanie & Wayne

Stephanie is a journalist, writer, editor, and has had several hundred articles published in various newspapers and magazines, many of which still are available online under “Stephanie Lyons Schultz”. She has a Masters degree in Counseling Psychology and was a practicing psychotherapist. She currently is a professor of psychology at WCSU and NVCC in Connecticut. Wayne is an Emmy-Award winning writer, producer, and director. He has produced many programs and documentaries that have appeared on television, and have been distributed to schools, libraries, and home video. Wayne also is a practicing attorney with a Masters degree in Law from NYU. In addition, he is a professor of communications at WCSU. Together, this recently wed couple write, produce, and direct as many of their stage, screen, and TV projects as they can with a full house -- their combined brood of seven! Some of their work has been featured this summer and fall off off Broadway; other work currently is under option. They hope to continue to promote more of their projects in the coming months! Feel free to write whatever comments you like! We want your feedback!