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Every Sunday my father used to blast Mahalia Jackson gospel records on our old, upright hi-fi, a spiritual experience of greater depth and resonance than we ever found at our local Catholic church ... [more] |
Jessica Karbowiak | bio
It’s the night before my emergency surgery when Central Texas has its first ice storm in over a decade. I laugh at my luck, watch the near-transparent flurries fall outside my bedroom window until well after midnight. My boyfriend and mother, who is visiting from New York, discuss the possibility "it may stick" in whispers in the living room for fear their voices may travel to where I’m sitting ... [more] |
Audio
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Cecelia Hagen | bio
Holy mother of God, he would say, and this was cursing.
But when we said Holy Mary, Mother of God,
that was praying ... [more]
Colette Tennant | bio
Say a quiet word to the cat
when you wake in the dark house
before the lights get loud.
Say good morning to your sculpin fears
hiding within the rocks ... [more]
A bird in the house was one.
When a robin flew in our open door
and almost beat itself to death
under the skillet cupboard,
we caught it in a dishtowel ... [more]
Follow us for updates on writers,
calls for submissions,
and news from the editors.
Volume 6.2 | Summer 2011
Editor’s Notes—Awkward
“It’s been an awkward year for me.” When Jessica Karbowiak says this in her essay “The Second Scraping,” it is the understatement of this new issue. It’s been an awkward year for us too, the editors of Blood Orange Review, but on a more literal level. Our submissions have increased four-fold, and while we have thoughtful and dedicated interns who have helped us with this transition (thank you, thank you, Washington State University!), we have often found ourselves out of breath ... [more] |
Poetry
Brit Blalock | bio
I am taking the word "dedication" and putting it on the windowsill to gather sunlight and heaviness. It is like swallowing, no, it is like burying bright the whole of a day spent in disguise ... [more]
While I’m swimming in the bay behind my house, BP oil sheen appears.
OK, so appears might be the wrong
word. It was less like the immaculate
conception and more like lava. Except
you couldn’t see a volcano or a poncho
of ash, no townspeople headed
for the hills ... [more]
Leonard Gontarek | bio
All day, long dark cars have pulled up in front of the house.
Weeping women have been led out & in ... [more]
Blacktop shines.
Mystery is overrated ... [more]
Danielle Hanson | bio
This bird is splashing in a puddle
but the puddle is in mid-air, hovering
hummingbird like
over the street ... [more]
This bird is not flying—she is throwing herself upwards.
First the wings and then the chest; the feet simply dragging behind ... [more]
Deanna Larsen | bio
She turnd hersell into a ship,
To sail out ower the flood …
“The Two Magicians”
19th c. English folk ballad
I started with basic shapes;
let my cells slip into a
bowl of cream.
Later, I moved on to sharp edges ... [more]
Drowning.
Strychnine.
Self-cannibalism. Scabs. Scarab beetles ... [more]
Claudia Serea | bio
The Age of the Innocent Poem
The innocent poem grazes on the grass.
The air crinkles with light,
the cardinals hushed in the bushes,
and, under leaves, the ants hold their breath ... [more]
Where was I? you ask
You were a little seed
I carried embedded in my body,
so small,
like the kiwi seeds
in the fruit’s bright green
translucent flesh ... [more]
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