c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


WINTER 2016 ISSUE


UNSAID
by David Dane

The words hurt. As soon as I think them, I regret. My regrets form a bouquet; beautiful dilemmas that I have arranged so carefully for myself. I breathe in their fragrances and take comfort from the words left unsaid.

Then I write the words down. They look inconsequential. I move them about on the page like peas on an unfinished plate. I erase them and write them down again. Then I throw the pages out. I do not speak the words because the words hurt. There is no shame in words left unsaid.

I swallow the words. I feed on them like a dog at his bowl. I inhale the words as if there was nothing there at all. But there is something there and it fills me with a sense of emptiness. Because the words hurt, I don't speak them; instead I take nourishment from the words left unsaid.

I contemplate what it means, not saying the words. Some things are better left unsaid. I suppose so; there is nothing left to be said now anyway.







FISH ON BEACH by Katy Brown

FISH ON BEACH by Katy Brown





THE EATER
by Adam Phillips

if there has ever been a place
in my heart for the eater

the heart is a brain
misshapen, lost.

at the supermarket
in my brain I am the greeter

and you wear a nametag, a red vest,
and you are the boss.

Together, we watch

the cottony tentacles of the storm
reach down to scrape the parking lot.

Swallowed in a drab gray ocean.
Soaking in one unbroken

January afternoon.
(this is simply the heart speaking, dressed as a brain)

eater of souls. of dice. of bones. we're side by side
when the eater washes over, dissolving
trains, the fish market, you

who never believe anything I say.






BONES by Lynn Crounse

BONES by Lynn Crounse





BICYCLE
by Robert Lee Haycock

Unable to do anything but bring fire to the tree rendering the saw useless amidst stacks of brick and translucent porcelain the actors unremember their lines laughing over spilt milk from Half Moon Bay to Moss Landing the children will not be quiet nor the radio trying to remember what the mad woman on the corner said about the sky giving birth to consequence for it made more sense than this.













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