DEAR ODYSSEUS | NICELLE DAVIS I’m scared. Normally my blood pressure is strangely low. Even doctors comment on how I’d make a great assassin, as my body hasn’t the quiver of a beat. The things people say scare me. Last night I woke with a pain in my chest. It felt as though three women ate of my heart; each mouth moving distinctly—I knew them as a mother knows the tug of her babe’s suckle. I haven’t told anyone this; I’m afraid of what people will say. I write to you, because you refuse to speak to me. I would like you to know, it will cost me the price of bread to have this message delivered. Maybe knowing this will make my words worth something. It is expensive to be hated. Only the hungriest will consider handling anything I touch. Before you, I could afford more. I have a yellow hat, which the wind has blown the brim limp. I look like a flag with it on, but I love the damn thing—it marks the last time I could hand over money with anonymity. Now I am a million names I don’t recognize. I do not know my own story. Do you have it? If so, I want it back. I do have a scrap of paper with you signature—a letter closing with Love. I will give you back this letter—will give all the bread that sustains me—give my eyes—my hat—that yellow flag of joy—for a reply. Why my heart when before it hadn’t a quiver? Hopefully, Circe The Post Script Circe Omits from Her Letter to Odysseus P.S. The women in me have been telling stories. They say you have my Odysseus—that he is not a goat—my son is not a goat. We have a son. You have our son. Give him back. I want him back. Give him back. Before we women take him. On the Day Circe Didn’t Kill Penelope I walk twelve miles with a rock in each hand. When I arrive at their front gate, Penelope and my Odysseus are playing in the grass. On her back, she lifts him with her feet into the air—he spreads his hands above her as though he is flying. He looks like a god. I believe in gods again. He laughs and a strand of drool falls from his chin and lands on her chest—it looks as though light sewed the two of them together—I think—this is how I would have loved him. With a rock in each, I leave without them knowing I had ever come. Nicelle Davis lives in Southern California with her son J.J. She is an assistant poetry editor for Connotation Press and runs a free online poetry workshop at The Bees’ Knees Blog. Tip Jar | Bookstore WritersFund.htmlhttp://astore.amazon.com/contrary-20shapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1

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WINTER 2011 SENESCENCE KELLY DAVIO GRAVE QUARTET LAURENCE DAVIES DEAR ODYSSEUS: THREE POEMS NICELLE DAVIS A FUNERAL EDWARD Mc WHINNEY EVERY GRAIN EVERY HAIR JANE WILLIAMS MY QUOTA OF JOY VICCY ADAMS RECENT AWARD WINNERS REBECCA LEHMANN SHERMAN ALEXIE MEREDITH MARTINEZ REVIEWS ROLAND BARTHES SUSAN FRODERBERG THE BRITISH SHORT STORY KATE BERNHEIMER THOMAS ESPEDAL VOICES AT THE WORLD’S EDGE Winter_2011.htmlSenescence_Kelly_Davio.htmlSenescence_Kelly_Davio.htmlGrave_Quartet_Laurence_Davies.htmlGrave_Quartet_Laurence_Davies.htmlA_Funeral_Edward_Mc_Whinney.htmlA_Funeral_Edward_Mc_Whinney.htmlEvery_Grain_Every_Hair_Jane_Williams.htmlEvery_Grain_Every_Hair_Jane_Williams.htmlViccy_Adams_My_Quota_of_Joy.htmlViccy_Adams_My_Quota_of_Joy.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Factory.htmlSherman_Alexie_Census.htmlhttp://www.contrarymagazine.com/Contrary/Love.htmlReviews.htmlRoland_Barthes_Mourning_Diary.htmlSusan_Froderberg_Old_Border_Road.htmlBritish_Short_Story_Liggins_Munder_Robbins.htmlKate_Bernheimer_Horse_Flower_Bird.htmlTomas_Espedal_Tramp.htmlVoices_at_the_Worlds_Edge.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0shapeimage_5_link_1shapeimage_5_link_2shapeimage_5_link_3shapeimage_5_link_4shapeimage_5_link_5shapeimage_5_link_6shapeimage_5_link_7shapeimage_5_link_8shapeimage_5_link_9shapeimage_5_link_10shapeimage_5_link_11shapeimage_5_link_12shapeimage_5_link_13shapeimage_5_link_14shapeimage_5_link_15shapeimage_5_link_16shapeimage_5_link_17shapeimage_5_link_18shapeimage_5_link_19shapeimage_5_link_20shapeimage_5_link_21shapeimage_5_link_22