Tag Archives: killer whale journal

a beaver wrote me

a song once
when our bellies were full
& the moon was full
              coyotes howling
              at the bone eye
her fingers
              plucked          the grass
              tail                     slapped the water

she sang about last thursday
hiding her mouth underwater
              to keep herself quiet
              when trappers trapped
              her momma
sheared her momma’s fur off
& left her naked
              floatin round somewhere

now this beaver’s
pluckin grass like a guitar
& i’m the only human
who hears her song
the others just don’t listen:
bievers r jus aenimels
              they say
tht wil nvr chanj
                         –Christine Lyons




Blood thrummed in your head. You
were eighteen and elegiac, you knew the
hidden names of the ages and your
knowledge curled in on itself,
a nautilus. You busted open your lip
on fists full of silver dollars while you
waited for the train. Boston faded deep
in the distance & you prayed hard in
the dark, terrific filth. You unfolded.
Brine of your oyster-shucked heart.
Honey ran through your teeth.

++++++Zachary Evans

bullfighter-gored-by orca


This is the announcement announcing that the submissions call for KILLER WHALE JOURNAL VOL. 2 is now open.

Submit your poems (on any theme, in any form) / essays on poetics / art inspired by orcas to:

Submissions close September 1st.

VOL. 1 can be found here: http://www.scribd.com/doc/221234754/KILLER-WHALE-JOURNAL-VOL-1


The seed of the dream is rooted in fear of the patriarch, manifested by the

Father. The patient recounts the Father as threatening to torture, but never

tangibly harming the dreamer. The death of the brother seems random, absurd.

Most transparent is the dreamer’s thematic inclination towards escape,

symbolized by a number of strange landscapes. Their surfaces appear

malleable: a dream world seemingly infinite

++++++Vanessa Saunders


Candle Beacon

A month past Christmas, we see a flame at the airport,
a beacon distorted by fog and dawn’s steam.
It seems to flare, then hover,
in this misleading sky that no longer tells time.
If it burns downward, is the day passing.
We drive closer, still on the mainland, trapped by gravity,
hoping for a balloon that runs on hot air
to lift us from this gloom.
If there were more beacons,
the island could be a candleholder,
its rough contours a floating menorah.
The ice floes in the channel melt,
vapour rises,
the smoke from an extinguished candle.

++++++Lucile Barker