PRISM 53.1 is set to launch next weekend at WORD Vancouver (and in subscribers’ mailboxes soon after)! To get you warmed up for the issue, here’s an excerpt – a poem by Bronwen Wallace Award finalist Raoul Fernandes. We hope you enjoy it, sweethearts:
Playground with interlocking tunnels. Willows worry
their reflections in the frog pond. Small gods throw spheres,
miss as often as they catch. Coins flicker in the fountain bed,
worth exactly the feeling of wishing. Leaves in circulation.
Runners in circulation. A young girl in the shade scratches
at a scratch-n-win. Grown men with dream journals in their
back pockets wander among the birch trees. Dolphin on a spring.
Rabbit on a spring. Swings used in inventive ways. Sweethearts.
A tall woman walks an oracular greyhound. A Beetle-child
hums his way home from his cello lesson. Some bright flapping
memory is caught in a tree and is also an actual thing: a kite.
What happens in real life is absorbed into dream journals.
Flocks of young soccer players, aligning, dispersing. A small
god pops an empty juice box under his sneaker. Another
laughs and shouts Angel! Angel! as his dog pulls him
by the leash through a flower bed. Frisbee-sliced air.
Pale moon on a string. A maple drops a leaf into your hair
to get your attention. Ok, sweetheart, you’ve got it.
Then more leaves drift down toward the earth.