Author: fpoussin

Stone, Dust, and Redemption
Leah-Joy Smith

I don’t know how
They found me.
How they knew.
They always find out,
Always know in the end.

They are empty robes
With open, hollow mouths.

Basket on my tired hip,
They marched like Roman
Across the market to me.

Pulled across cobblestones,
In the middle of stares.
Forced to face His brown eyes.
Mid-sentence of a lesson
In the temple courts.

The robes wished for stones.
For me because of what I’d done. Stones
For Him who had done nothing.

Finger moving in the sand
My mind could not tell
My eyes what He wrote.

Arrows flew from hollow mouths
Nicking and pestering,
Pelting my hurt heart each time.
Seeing Him as a bear,
My mess was their bait.
The Lion rose.

Let anyone of you
Who is without sin
Be the first to throw
A stone at her.
He put his finger back
To the dirt.

The Robe released my elbow,
Let loose my hair,
Swallowed a dose of defeat.
I was left alone
With burning eyes,
With rattled insides,
With Him.

I froze, like Lot’s wife.
He stood and lifted His eternal eyes.
Well, little sister, where’d they go?
No stones?

No, sir.

His tool calloused hand on my shoulder,
Then I don’t have any either.
Go live free and leave
Your life of sin.

That was when it started;
The turning.
From adultery, climbing out
Of a trench so familiar on the rope latter
Of my Father’s love, perseverance
One rung at a time.

Then I met him.
He listened, I listened.
My story came out.
I opened my heart like an age
Old manuscript: slowly,
Every sentence uncurled, read,
And accepted.

No judgment, hollow lies,
Or stones. Instead,
Hope, love, and home.
H plays tag with the girls,
Tells me to rest.
Sometimes, he reminds me
Of Jesus’ Nazarene father.

Song & Dance
Hannah Hannah

Don’t you know that God wants to sing to you?
In the mundane,
in the washing,
folding,
unfolding,
repeating everyday-ness of life.

How does God sing to you?
In the laughter of an old friend,
in the mourning dove that’s visited your kitchen window the past two days,
in the percolating of coffee,
the swirling of the spoon
and its clink on the rest.

Don’t you know that God wants to dance with you?
In the joy,
in the new job,
long awaited reunion,
warm sheets fresh from the dryer,
big and simple happinesses of life.

And in the sorrow.
In the loss of friendship,
the pulverizing of trust,
and abandonment of hope.
He wants to dance with you in the crushing loss of life.

How does God dance with you?
In the curling of steam over your tea,
in the morning light that trickles through trees and flickers on your bed,
in the monarch that circles you three times before flying off,
in the wind that tosses your hair and breathes a chill down your neck.

God is big enough to care about the small,
light enough to cast out all the dark,
good enough to love when it hurts.

Will you listen when He sings to you?

She Walks
Anna Lundy

down the beach
holding her hope in her hands
a cup of chai tea
like it could save her life,
her light twinkling like the stars
but as fleeting as a wave upon the shore.
the big dipper in her teacup,
causing a constellation of steam in the
chilly night air.
her feet are sandy
as she searches for a light at sea.

Renewal
Alivia Gladden

she inhales.
allowing the breeze’s murmurs
to envelope as an intimate embrace
she strokes the grass blades
fresh dew purges winter’s grasp

she closes her eyes
each gust melting frosted grief
she knows His promises are true,
anticipating the coming season
the promise of spring

she no longer overwhelms herself
with thoughts of the past
she is tranquilized
welcoming the unknown
reclining in the green

she exhales.

R.J.
Tayla Vannelli

Even the windshield wipers know this meeting is going to be a useless disaster. They swipe back and forth, creaking as they go. The two of them settle back down, the rain pounds the window, and then they tiredly rise to wipe it away once more. Whatever visibility they create will just be covered by more rain, but they rise again and again, just like we go to meeting after meeting.

We pull into the parking lot, and my husband sighs in relief. This relentless thunderstorm forced us to drive 20 mph on the freeway for an hour. I tried convincing my husband multiple times to turn around. The sky is telling us today is doomed. If we were going to receive good news, then there would be clear skies with the sun shining down. I know there won’t be any sun today.

We walk into the office and sign in. All of the closer parking spots were filled, so we had to walk in the downpour. I swipe away the drops of water tickling my forehead as they slip to my cheeks. I want to think that today can’t get any worse, but I know it will. It always does.

We step into the agent’s office, and my heart misses a beat. In this office, we were assigned us our last child. Her office brings back all the memories of paperwork and long phone calls filled with desperate pleading.

We’ve been trying to adopt a child for five years. After the first few failures, you learn to harden your heart and shove hope down the drain. This last time, our stubborn doubt wasn’t quite stubborn enough. We were cynical the entire time during the pregnancy. We were skeptical when we heard the baby had been born.

But then… we actually held the baby. Little Andrew even came home with us. He lived with us for a whole week. He was our little boy; we were sure of it. Some legal things still needed to be finalized, and we were aware of the laws in California that gave the mother time to

revoke the adoption, but those things were far from our minds. We were parents! We happily lost entire nights of sleep for that boy. Our friends and family met Andrew. He had his room set up in our house. We became a family of three.

Forever is a stupid hope. Forgiving Andrew’s mother is a goal I won’t ever achieve. She ripped him from our home. She willingly gave Andrew away for a whole week. She left a room in our home empty and depressing. She stole my baby away from me.

“Mrs. Torrin?” I look up. “Are you alright?”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. My husband is squeezing my hand over these firm, uncomfortable chairs. I look up at the desk where our new adoption agent sits. She looks terrified, and rightly so. Our last agent quit after the trauma of our last fiasco. We are pitied in this office, and I have not missed the murmurs of people who are questioning why we haven’t given up yet. I pretend to not hear them, because I don’t have an answer myself.

“I’m sorry… Angelica,” I reply, noting the name standing on her desk. Richard squeezes my hand and looks at me with concern. I turn away. “What were you saying?”

She shuffles her papers nervously. “I was merely expressing my sympathies for your last case.”

I nod. I hate that Andrew is referred to as our last “case.” He didn’t feel much like a case when he was crying in my arms.

“I understand that you are both probably hesitant to put your names on the adoption list again.” I roll my eyes in response. “In saying this, I do have a potential child for you.”

Richard finally shows his aggravation. “Of course there is a potential child! There’s almost always a potential child. This means nothing.”

“How far along is she?” I ask, my voice surprising me with its calmness.

“Well that’s the thing…” Angelica draws out. “The child has already been born.” Richard and I look at each other. “The original adoptive family decided against the adoption in her ninth month, and the mother is desperately trying to keep her child from having to go into the foster care system long-term. She’s signed over her rights to revocation, and the child has been staying with different foster families every night since he was born four days ago.”

My hand clasps Richard’s so tight that it begins to slightly shake the chair. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying there’s no chance of the mother taking the boy back into her care?”

Angelica shakes her head. “The mother had already been deemed incapable of providing sufficient care for the child, and she signed over her rights completely. The child is a ward of the state.” “And the father?” Richard questions.

Angelica shrugs. “Signed over rights months ago.”

I narrow my eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”

She sighs. “There is one small thing.”

I sink further into my chair. I knew it. This was way too good to be true. I knew it was, but stupid hope doesn’t tend to listen when the brain tells it to pipe down.

Angelica looks at our file. “You are listed as unwilling to provide care for a child with severe special needs.” My eyes widen. “The little boy has Down Syndrome.”

I exchange a look with Richard. We had talked years ago about how we weren’t sure we were capable of adopting a child with special needs. It’s a huge undertaking. But…

“While I understand how much of a commitment this is, I have never seen such perfect circumstances. The little boy could be in your home within 48 hours, and he could be legally yours within days. So long as you prove to be a suitable home within those first few days, and once the legal documents are processed, he would be legally and officially yours.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Emily…” Richard warns.

“No. I want to know his name.”

Angelica smiles warily. “Richard,” she whispers. My shoulders tremble and my breath catches. Tears immediately blossom in Richard’s eyes. “His name is Richard.”

***

Richard Jr.’s 10th birthday is a huge success. His smile is as large as it always is, and his family watches him with a palpable fondness. He’s not an easy kid, but he sure is joyful. Emily wipes tears from her eyes as she watches him from the corner. Those five years of being denied a child still weigh heavy on her soul, and she still misses Andrew every now and again, but she now knows that God crafted that storm. Without a season of storms, the sun is ignored and forgotten. Looking around the room at R.J.’s laughing cousins and beaming grandparents, she is overwhelmed with gratitude for her storm, because her son will never be forgotten or ignored.

Petrichor and Rainbows
Ashley Lassetter

The thunder shook the ground with a violent shock. Lily had never been in a thunderstorm before. She looked up at her mother and shouted, “Mom, the storm’s coming! We won’t make it through. All our petals will be ripped and torn. Our pleasant light purple shade will be no more.” She quietly observed as her mother glanced down at her without the faintest look of fear in her eyes. Her mother bent down graciously and replied, “It will be alright, trust me. We have to open up to the storm.”

Lily, frantically trying to hide under her mom, screamed out “But mom! Aren’t you afraid? Storms are dangerous, and we will get trampled by the weight of this one. It is sure to kill us. I can’t make it through this storm. What are we going to do?!”

Her mom floated over her, covering Lily with her own petals. She kissed her daughter as she replied, “Oh, but Lily, now is when we must learn to dance in the rain.” She braced herself for the storm to come. She straightened up from the bottom of her stem, peeled back her petals, and began swaying in time with the wind, smiling up at the sky as the dim clouds rolled in and the distant sounds of thunder peaked over the hilltop.

Lily marveled at her mom, seeing a beauty she had never seen before. She realized that no matter how severe the storm, she would stand tall, and no matter how many petals she lost, she would open up to the abrasive winds, for she wanted to be like her mom: delicate and fragile, yet unafraid of the storms of life, accepting each raindrop with such grace and strength.

Lily, like her mom, opened her petals and swayed in time with the winds. Lily smelled petrichor and felt the raindrops begin to fall, calm in the face of the certainty that this first storm wouldn’t be her last, and she would grow and learn to dance in the storm just like her mom. The storms came, and the rain poured, and Lily twirled in the storm and discovered that the most amazing things in life can follow a storm. Lily smiled as the rain stopped and the clouds began to clear. She opened her eyes once more and squealed with joy as she saw, for the first time, a rainbow bound across the sky in radiant colors.

“Maybe storms aren’t so bad after all, Mom,” Lily stated as she rested on her.

“No, Lily, it’s all in how you respond to them,” her mother said as she welcomed the first rainbow that they experienced together.

Onto the Dark Path
Fabrice Poussin

As if a blind babe she ventured on
An uncertain path drawn in haste
For the clock ran its course
And she too counted the hours.

Recalling so many eves
Before finally setting in motion
Events yet hidden from her sight
She hoped not to stumble again.

So many accidents before
Cuts and bruises from cruel encounters
Her body shivers in uncontrollable fear
Inside murmurs hesitate on their pursuit.

While all is still around
She is certain the road will clear
Although enveloped in its somber shroud
There is no need to see when one believes.

One more step to her destiny
Pale as if standing at the reaper’s door
She hides within the passion of another life
Unstoppable as a bright beacon shines within.

Nightfall
Jay Chambers

Yellow, pink, and red all overlay the orange
of the setting sun. Complimentary colors
bathe the horizon in a coherent whole.
Elsewhere, dusk has come and blankets
the farmhouse with a smooth and comforting
darkness. The dandelions fade into black.
I turn around and see the cows standing in
the pasture. Rich tan and brindle coats have
now been rendered as silhouettes in contrast
To the final climax of color, dancing yellows,
Strutting pinks, and roaring reds, bowing now
at the end of their encore, the sun fades to black.

My Heart Is in Pennsylvania
Eva Cruz

I remember the summers in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
when I a little girl. My front yard was a giant hill
that dropped toward the street. The grass scribbled
on my pants when I rolled down the valley.
My Abuelo would yell, Eva, ¿qué estás haciendo?
Nothing! I yelled back. The grass stains
telling on me and getting me in trouble.

The cool, still nights where I would catch lighting
bugs and pretend they were my best friends.
I put them in mason jars and made lanterns
that helped me find my way in the hill’s wilderness. After I completed my quest, I let them go
and waved goodbye to the pulsating, neon lights

I slurped on homemade limber ──Puerto Rican popsicles
that tasted better than any brand name treat. But
I always popped up like a meerkat when I heard the
jingling melodies of the ice cream truck. I sighed
as my teeth sunk into a SpongeBob shaped ice cream.
It dripped onto my chubby, little face, and I later
scavenged the fridge for my next victim.

The best part were our family feasts.
Spanish beans and rice, plantains, and pernil─
Puerto Rican pork roast, that tasted better
with each bite. We sang and danced and I hoped
that my knowledge of the words
Hola and gracias would carry on a conversation.

Magnetic Poetry Sestina
Sarah Bramblett

When I got my first apartment, my mom gave me some words,
a set of magnetic poetry, to stick beside the grocery list
on my fridge. I’d spend several quiet hours scatter[ing]
the nouns and verbs. Less writing, more rearranging.
Three-hundred magnets cast a sort of spell,
transporting me from the dilapidated kitchen; it was magic.

“love,” “language,” “symphony,” “magic,”
just a few of the possible poem words.
I’d move an “a” in front of “lone,” and so I’d spell
my story. With the limited vocabulary, I’d list
my dreams: “money,” “commencement,” “music.” Rearranging
on the whim of the day (early twenties are when ambitions scatter).

My apartment often became a respite for scatter[ed]
college friends who always brought magic
of laughter, worth turning on the lights, worth rearranging
my weekend Netflixing schedule. Their simple words
coaxed me out. They’d made a list:
festivals, concerts, freebies, and I followed, as if under a different spell.

Til the curse of Sunday evening and the broken spell
meant that friends resumed their scatter[ing].
But I was left with a note he’d added to my list:
The magnet that read “magic”
held up a scrap of paper with the words
“Call Zach.” My fears found themselves rearranging.

Fears like you’re not funny enough, you’re not pretty, rearrange[ed]
as I moved the one magnetic “s” to spell
“opportunity[s].” With a name and inviting words
hopes like you might not die alone, he likes you scatter[ed]
the fears to the edge; I called him, booked a date, Tuesday at 8. Magic:
life lived beyond the list.

Zach wasn’t the one. Neither was the next guy, nor the next on a list
of dates, bad and good. Two more years of my fears constantly rearranging
until, I met you. And it wasn’t instant magic,
But you came into my life, let me in yours, and after a spell
my dreams were also scattering.
“Yes” was our most unexpected, important word.

The U-Haul’s here and it’s boxes we’re scattering and rearranging,
I pull off the sticky list of magnets; it’s our future that I spell.
The magic of the magnets is actually the wonder of the words.