November 30 – December 6, 2015: William C. Blome and Elizabeth Alford

William C. Blome and Elizabeth Alford

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William C. Blome

Bio (auto)

William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as The Alembic, Amarillo Bay, Prism International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by William C. Blome and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


The frogs are jumping, one after another,
from the chessboard painted on patio tiles
into the beckoning, greenish pond,
as your husband, spirited and jaunty,
comes caning down the walk. Now I for one
am nearly bent over double
on a bordering lawn and praying to God
I can touch you in all the places I’ve missed,
and I beg Him for the necessary gonads
to let me wheel myself up beside hubby
and become competent salesman enough
to flash my wanna-try-something-good smile
and offer him a strychnine caramel or two.

Elizabeth Alford

Bio (auto)

Elizabeth Alford has always had an on-again-off-again relationship with poetry; but in the wake of her graduation from CSU East Bay, she recently announced that they are now going steady (much to everyone’s relief). She lives in Hayward, CA with her loving fiancé, mother, and two adorable dogs. Her favorite things include sushi, loud music on long drives, staring at the stars, and, of course, writing. Her work has appeared in the student literary magazine Occam’s Razor, on the Haikuniverse website, and in the MY SWEET WORD series by Silver Birch Press.

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Elizabeth Alford and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Almost a Love Poem

Affection comes in many forms,
But not my love poems.

Chemistry. We have chemistry. You have chemistry homework.

Difficult doesn’t begin to describe it. You’re buried in books—
Engrossed in those head-scratching, brow-furrowing
Formulas that always equate to confusion. You
Grunt here and there; little
Huffs of breathy frustration, like the ones you blow
In my ear when we make love. ……..Ah, yes, love.
Just another formula. Just another chemical reaction.
Kisses, hormones, pheromones; stirring desire into a solution.
Leaving it to bubble over high heat, to react.

Maybe school isn’t the solution, you once said, on the cusp of devolution—to
Neanderthal Man: hunched over, hairy, barely clothed, scratching your head.
Of course, you always look like that with a book, but

Perhaps the bonds that connect us are stronger than I thought.

Quarks—we had an argument about quarks recently. You thought,
Rightly, that they had to do with physics. I was thinking,
Space, space… they must have something, anything to do with space.
They don’t, really. …..Do I need space? Am I the quintessential
Uncertainty principle? We are but two of eight billion
Volatile human reactions happening every second.

We are made of atoms, after all. …….We are the same inside, after all.
X-rays reveal that much. Bones in the dust. Imagine the headlines:
Young Female Poet Weds Hulking Neanderthal Scienti—actually,
Zingers like that I should keep to myself.