Monthly Archives: May 2015

The Muscle Feast by Zelda Chappel

Break my shell, reveal the green of weathered copper,
thin mother of pearl in full rainbow split. Show the air
the softness of my flesh but don’t forget to let me outline it
for you first. Expose me to the gulls. I cannot wait for sun,
nor the salt of her. Be sure to breathe slow as you do it.
Don’t pretend this is not deliberate. Embrace your poise.
It’s the middle months that mean the most, their wait.
It’s anticipation. The way I’ve balanced on the cusp in fear
and trust is worse each year, I know. I am more brittle
in this age now sand works hard to do its thing and you
are happy with its scratch. The pulse of dead muscles is
too subtle for your tastes. She’ll linger, acrid in the drive
of blood by heart and breath by lung—a slow ratchet click
until I am wound and you are tighter. One day, I’ll be fiercer.



Zelda writes, often on the backs of things. Her work can be found in several magazines in print and online and her debut collection, The Girl in the Dog-tooth Coat is due for publication in July 2015 with Bare Fiction.

Let Me Out by Rich Boucher

There’s so much red in all the Target stores and I don’t understand it. What are they trying to do to people? I’m sorry about yesterday; I’m sorry I told you that I didn’t like you anymore and that I wasn’t going to split the cost of the snacks with you; it seems like every time I go into a Target I get really angry. Why do they have to fill the place with so much red color? Why do they want to do this to me? I don’t even know why we were there and I don’t know that anybody knows why they go there. I think we were there to either buy some ginger ale and a chair, or a picture frame, or you needed to get some tampons or I needed a video game and some aspirin or else we needed to buy the idea that our future was going to be ok or else we wanted to find out if it was possible to have church anywhere or else have some dessert or else hold me now but all I could see was red. That bright angry red that says you’re not leaving here until you buy some electronics and Milano cookies. That sweating tomato on the vine, shaking and about to burst like a throbbing brain, those holly berries like little crazy eyes. They make me think I’m capable of terrible things. Those red stone spheres in front of the Target give me the bad dream feeling that I’m going to lose control and become the first man who ever lived and donkeypunch someone’s grandmother on the stairs, chainsaw everything in half. Every other breath I take in that place is an exasperated sigh and I want to chokeslam an elderly greeter right into the wall. Target makes me feel like I’m about to learn how dangerous nature can be, in the way that cavemen found out which of the colored sweets were the deadly berries. I feel like I’m about to be the dangerous nature when I’m there. All of that murder everywhere, all of that Target welling up inside of me like bile. I feel like I’m about to dropkick the nearest dachshund into next week. I can see myself backing over a soccer mom with my car because I don’t want to check the rear-view mirror for fear of seeing all of that exciting goddamned merchandise in my eyes. I can’t believe how big my eyebrows are. All that bright emergency ambulance red in the signs over every aisle, all that infuriating red has become a pulse in my skull and I want to leap over the counter and go after that cashier with his stupid bloody shirt and his way-too-tight khakis. I can’t stop thinking about it once I start. Am I in a Target now? Is that where I am? I need to get the hell out of here.
Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Rich served two terms as a member of the Albuquerque Poet Laureate Program’s Selection Committee, and also as a member of the 2014 Albuquerque City Slam Team. Currently a freelance staff writer for the ABQ Free Press, his poems have appeared in Gargoyle, The Nervous Breakdown, Catching Calliope, The Mas Tequila Review, Menacing Hedge, New Bourgeois, Cultural Weekly, and MultiVerse, among others, and he has work forthcoming in Damfino Press and The Harpoon Review.

A Drink With a Drunk – by Nancy P. Davenport

there is something


about drinking with a drunk
you either

chugalug to catch up
and end up          wasted

or you                  slow              down

to be

either way

if a drunk has a drink                   in their hand
this is      what      they
are thinking
about                                            (this                                                        and the next one)

try changing a pickle
back to a cucumber

a mummy back                to life

try changing history

making the sand in
an hourglass                     go up

Nancy Davenport’s poems have appeared in Burning Grape, Bicycle Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Lilliput Review, Blue Fifth Review, Poetry Quarterly, and Red Fez. She’s had poems in anthologies, UNDER COVER, SPARRING WITH BEATNIK GHOSTS, and the upcoming feminist anthology, RETURN TO MAGO. Nancy’s chapbook, LA BRIZNA, was published in May, 2014.

Voices – by Donna J Snyder

Someone said Anne Sexton wrote poetry so Kurt Vonnegut could conquer fear

coerced confessions never the most reliable
you want truth then look at Botero’s art
stick my head in a latrine and call me Rover
leash me beat me send photos to your friends
I’ll tell you every truth that never existed
shackle my hands to the dungeon wall
fetter my ankles and dress me in a red bra
be sure to match the panties painted on me
show my hairy arm pits my hairy knees
my face and belly and disgusting arms
what you want me to be what you’re afraid I am
soon I’ll confess both my sin and your own
I am a spy who bears incendiary thought
the hand of an angry god ready for retribution
put a collar on my throat sing cantatas of jeers

I call Lowell mama and Plath was my daddy
Sexton became my lover on the asylum path
I got no poppa and momma doesn’t want me
I’m not a normal woman I have needs
she breathed into my ear I want it all the time
at least I did before these new little pills
Dear Abby got it all wrong at least about me
she says women think about sex only rarely
while she claims men do every other minute

she’s wrong or I’m not natural the votes are in
It’s not that I see people as walking dicks or cunts
I’m no kvetching Portnoy either I don’t complain
it’s not like I’m even very good anymore I fear

the way they all leave I must have lost my touch
but still I have my needs my needs my needs

I hear your rhythms in words inside my head
put your hands around my neck inhale my breath

she confessed my madness in lie after naked lie
she chronicled my strife in every precise detail
torturous connections described everyone’s fear
her breath in my ear made me want to be her poppa
hold her in my arms and carry her to a sturdy bed
listen to her prayers and lick her throat with kisses
hide my excitement behind a mask of care
but I knew exactly how it would all turn out
standing on the path behind a cold stone wall
she’d forget me as soon as she found another
that’s if she’s ever able to forget me at all

she was running for the streets when she found me
I was running from the streets when I moved in
she told me stories about family but nothing real
she sang Jim Carroll lullabies throughout the night
a song about people he knew who died so young
she let me sleep by day against the doctor’s order
she didn’t like how wet I get didn’t like my smell
I left her to be Edward Hopper’s waiting redhead
and now live on the always lonely side of the pain
condensation on glass my paper and flesh my pen
blood for ink scrawled across a threatening wall
a rhyme on my lips I’ll jump into my own grave
and I shall die sullen no one knowing my name
split me in threes with your spite part poppa part
meat-hook part the me that lurks in sordid glass
since I’ve already been to Brooklyn as she said
there’s nothing more to expect from this life
but it’s not her I want now that she’s left me
it was the thrill of meeting her on that path

I gaze into the mirror like a Botero beauty
I always hear her rhythms inside my head
I’ll forget about her as soon as I find another
that is if I’m ever able to forget her at all
I don’t think about her now except sometimes
those random dark hours when I call her name



Donna J Snyder coordinates weekly workshops for the Tumblewords Project, which she founded in 1995.  In 2014, Chimbarazu Press published her collection Poemas ante el Catafalco:  Grief and Renewal and Virgogray Press reissued I Am South.  NeoPoiesis Press will release The Tongue and Its Secrets in 2015.


Welcome to the Weekly Feature blog of Yellow Chair Review.

This blog will harbor the weekly featured work from writers and artists that are being published in the issues of YCR.  New work will be posted every Sunday.  Featured work will be at the discretion of the editors of YCR.  Once our inaugural issue goes live the blog will also become active.

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