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  April 2008
volume 6 number 1
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Theresa Antonia
  Jim D. Babwe
  Amanda Boschetto
  Jack G. Bowman
  Maria Rose Burgio
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  Chris Crittenden
  Henri Dumolet
  W.S. Fisher
  Kenneth Gurney
  Alegria Imperial
  Liu Jue
  Scott C. Kaestner
  Marie Lecrivain
  Laura LeHew
  Chris Mansell
  Sonnet Mondal
  Carl Moore
  Peter Nezafati
  Rob Plath
  Kim Schroeder
  June Shiitake
  Annette Sugden
  Ilona Timoszuk
  Kirby Wright
  mailing list
Theresa Antonia
April 2008



photo by kevin berger

    Theresa Antonia is Italian. To prove this, she keeps a photo in her purse of her grandfather in his wife beater t-shirt, cigar in his mouth, a jug of wine on the table his "friends" are sitting around in the basement, a bare bulb dangling overhead.
    She's also an internationally published poet, grant recipient, artist in residence, and freelance photographer with a master's degree in psychology.
    She's performed her one woman show at Beyond Baroque, and all over L.A. Published in numerous anthologies, and special edition chapbooks, she's a contributing editor for poeticdiversity, a co-director and editor for the Valley Contemporary Poets, is known for writing in a narrative prose style, and is still finishing her documentary on creativity, To contact:



This Would be the Year

She wants to write a love poem but she doesn’t believe in love
anymore, though their bodies lay east to west, port to starboard,

his lips reaching hers, her lips reaching back, until all there is to
do is wait for that “accident of sex, the knot untying itself to cut

them loose”. This would be the year she’d stop making promises,
because, she looses a lot of friends that way anyway. This year

they’d exchange their sad stories, her pressed up against his neck
as their boat rocks and drifts. This year she’d write, not dust upon

paper or chalk on a sidewalk; but carved in trees with sharp sticks,
like songs that stay in your head, not like pyramids that no longer

stand, or like everyone, everywhere who leaves, she’d say and
lean back in his arms, getting comfortable; remembering a promise

made from a mother to a daughter, about getting back to living life
again, but only after she finished ironing her husbands shirts. She

never did finish, and all the while her daughter watched, to see how
it was done. This would be the year she decided her lover and her

would live in spite of that legacy, would dare believe again, through
false hope, and love unrequited and veiled truths, sent in a message

she got in a dream, by a wizard, played by Lawrence Olivier, that
they would live wild, like the wind having, in the past, once slipped

by them, but not this time, oh maybe this time; and how she fears love,
but he has “un-seated her heart”, where, among September blooming

roses, he’s giving her a backrub, and he has no idea what he is doing.
Rough as a mechanic, dry as trampled flowers in an empty field. What

she learned about love, she learned from her mother; how to keep vases
for cut flowers that her husband never brings. Now, her lover, who came

into her life like an ox pulling his load, one who walks too slowly through
their field, is giving her a back rub, and he has no idea what he is doing.

Yes, she told herself, this would be the year, she’d finally tip all the way
back into his arms while they did a dead man’s float. She’d lie back

and listen to what the ocean tells her, as her lover’s bare fingers paw at her
as an animal would; her in the kitchen “not knowing what to say or do next.”

copyright 2008 Theresa Antonia