M. B. Powell
Everyone's Love Affair: A History in Five Acts
1
It takes so little to fall in love, and so much
of it's happenstance (in lovers' language, Fate)—
the classic case, the unintended touch.
It takes so little to fall in love, and so much:
one combustive bit of history shared over lunch;
the eyes skimming, locking, fleeing too late.
It takes so little to fall in love, and so much
of it's happenstance (in lovers' language, Fate).
2
I know I'm not the one, I'm the other,
the supplicant, the ennobled courtly lover.
My role's to wait, and wait, on the mate of another
(because I'm not the one, but am the other).
Why can't I play myself and be some other
someone's one? Forever undercover,
I'll never be your one, just your other,
your supplicant, your ignoble courtly lover.
3
Touch is best. I like it in my mind
and when it happens, when one of us undresses.
I like the sliding and sticking of the entwined kind.
Touch is best. I can feel it in my mind,
the way it slips and catches, twists, unwinds,
and presses. I like the mouth's elastic yesses.
Yes, touch is best. I love it in my mind,
but more so when it happens, when one undresses.
4
—after Dorothy Parker's "A Telephone Call"
How many generations of the iPhone must pass
before you're moved to text or call me on yours?
"I'll call you at five, darling." But five's long past.
(I think a generation of the iPhone just passed.)
It wasn't "Call me" you said; atomic clocks aren't fast.
This silence, like your deafening marriage, endures.
How many generations of the iPhone must pass
before you're moved to text or call me on yours?
5
—after line 2777 of Chaucer's "Knight's Tale"
What is this world? What are we searching for?
Please don't say love, which leaves us lonelier still,
spent host of broken shells on the roaring shore.
What is this world? What are we searching for?
I won't say love. It would leave me as before,
the lost glove's mate, lone snag on a clear-cut hill.
What is this world? What are we searching for?
Don't say it. It fails us, leaves us lonelier still.
If You're My Coracle, You're an Oarless One
"[L]et me sail in you over these spirited waves. I
have the hope of a saint in a coracle."
—Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body (1992)
If you're my coracle, you're an oarless one,
spinning hopeless me over the trackless sea,
the ruffled waves stitched by a jittery sun.
If you're my coracle, you're an oarless one
I'd gladly forsake for the merciful gondola or punt,
some bread and wine on board, our course a stream.
If you're my coracle, you're an oarless one,
spinning faithless me over the trackless sea.
Blue, Bluer, Bluest
1
My love is not an emoji kind of love,
unless I missed the one of a pale blue heart
cradled in a carcass on a snowy bluff.
My love is not an emoji kind of love,
heart-eyed, kiss-blowing, syrupy as blood.
Mine’s wan, cyanotic, a thing apart.
My love is not an emoji kind of love,
unless I missed the one of a pale blue heart.
2
How one thing leads to another, this, then that.
How fires in Spain turn daylight red in London.
How Saharan air and sand contribute to that.
How one thing leads to another, this, then that.
How Ophelia’s winds gave rise to all of that.
How twisting winds have left me blue and undone.
How one thing leads to another, this, then that.
How fires in Spain turn daylight red in London.
3
When I say, “Your leaving leaves me feeling blue,”
I mean I see the world through a scrim of blue.
Blue sun, blue clouds, blue leaves. My house is blue.
When I say, “Your leaving leaves me feeling blue,”
this fog I float through is blue. My boat is blue.
And above me, the midnight sky is midnight blue.
When I say, “Your leaving leaves me feeling blue,”
I mean I see the world through a scrim of blue.
The Way the Morning Sunlight Loses Itself
The way the morning sunlight loses itself,
strained by leaves, sliced by blinds, disturbs me.
Stains and blades of light are all that’s left
on mornings when the sunlight loses itself.
Unsure as I am, I need to wake to the heft
of solid beams of light that won’t desert me.
The way the morning sunlight loses itself,
strained by leaves, sliced by blinds, unnerves me.
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| AUTHOR BIO |
| M. B. Powell's poems have appeared in various journals, including Atlanta Review, Dappled Things, Dogwood, The Lyric, Peregrine, Raintown Review, and Third Wednesday. Collections include a chapbook, Lovers, Mothers, Killers, Others (2013), and two books, In Relation to the Surface (2019) and Two Neutron Stars Collide; or, Everyone's Love Affair (forthcoming 2019). Recognition of individual poems includes Atlanta Review's International Poetry Contest Grand Prize (for "Phrases for Public Speakers at Sea"), the Princemere Poetry Prize (for "Slack Water"), and the Georgia Poetry Society's Educators Award (for "One Mother's Day"). Originally from Marietta, Georgia, she now lives in Union, Washington.
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| POETRY CONTRIBUTORS |
 Ansie Baird
Melissa Balmain
Kathryn Boswell
Maya Chhabra
Geraldine Connolly
Linda Conroy
Lisa DeSiro
Peggy Landsman
Susan McLean
Diane Lee Moomey
Samantha Pious
M. B. Powell
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Alexandra Umlas
Cheryl Whitehead
Marly Youmans (Featured Poet)
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| Rounded in deep compassion for the human experience across borders, Mizrachi explores both the spiritual and physical dimensions of being human, and in particular, female. Often times, the female figure in various mythical iterations intersects with earthbound feminine forms as a means to communicate and transmit social consciousness. Mizrachi’s intentions include the empowerment of self and others through artistic expression, as well as advocacy for women, youth, and the environment. Family, community, and tribe are also recurring themes and are approached as active spaces of shared engagement.
In recent years, Mizrachi’s studio practice has developed into a testing ground for explorations in assemblage, sculpture, and installation that has transformed both her painting practice and decades of work as a muralist. Moving beyond paint, her small scale pieces have become sculptural drawings and her murals have become outdoor wall installations. Both styles of work have taken on new life as three dimensional geometric forms.
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