ISSN 1551-8086
return to home search for a contributing writer

seach for poems by title

archive of previous issues submissions information mailing list online store links to other interesting sites contact us  
  August 2009
volume 7 number 2
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Azure Antoinette
  Theresa Antonia
  Catherine Berry
  Mary Rose Betten
  Richard Burrill
  David Christensen
  Kathrine David
  Holly Day
  kumari de Silva
  Kenneth Gurney
  Paul Hellweg
  Thea Iberall
  Kathleen Kenny
  Tracy Koretsky
  Marie Lecrivain
  H.E. Mantel
  Rick Marlatt
  Augusto Munoz
  Sergio Ortiz
  Yelena and Roman Tunkel
  Carmen Vega
  John Sibley Williams
  Amye Wilson
  Seth Woolf
  mailing list
Theresa Antonia
August 2009



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:



What Do We Know For Sure

We dream.
We wake from our dream.
We interpret each other.
We become masks.

A truck stops at devil’s canyon
for salvation.
The fireman gets out,
takes off his protective netting,
accustoms himself to desire.

A girl crosses the street,
drinks courage from the volcano,
trusts in god but ties her horse,
covers her shame.

She is inept at all things except love.

We count the days.
Days turn to years.
Homeless desires tumble down streets
like an empty paper bag
picked up by the wind.

We want to forget
the last thing they will ever tell us
and “I will always love you”
is no consolation,
wind in our hair, birds circling overhead,
clouds pulling each other across the sky.

Does perfection of love
lie only in its acceptance
the lovers’ imperfection?

Standing at the fountain,
gazing up at the sky’s canopy,
the sun slinking behind shadows,
I realize we know nothing for sure;
night coming on late in the day,
coaxing the moon from its cage,
our hearts breaking.

copyright 2009 Theresa Antonia