As we enter the next decade, I want to thank all of the writers and readers who have made our tenth year so successful. I take enormous pride in working with so many talented and inspiring writers. Without your brilliance and generosity of spirit and intellect, none of this would be possible. It has been a great privilege to publish your work on our site, and I hope to continue featuring diverse perspectives, challenging ideas, and unique voices for years to come. As a way to look back on what we accomplished in 2019, I have complied the 50 most popular posts of the year based on internet traffic and clicks.
Thank you again to everyone who wrote for, read, and promoted AIOTB Magazine in 2019. Let the 20s roar again!
In the flat hills of the village Next to the tiny streams irrigating the wheat The sweat hangs, clinging. Like tears—cleaving skin—to that tight white blouse Before dropping to the ground the hour before dark As the hornpipe and the heart swell with yearning Waiting for the hour to sit down as the blood-orange red sun sits Momentarily in the embrace of the hay As the colors of the world drained away by the shoulder aching Until at last that salmon roe of a sun finally bursts Letting out all that is glowing, glistening, bulging, bleeding, burning the riding hood in scarlet face facing against the sun, still waiting for the prodigal son.
Her brother. Returning but never returning from his adventures with women. Her scythe will one day take her father away, she thought, as the sun ravaged her baby white skin, toughed it, burned it. Like her pink soft lips.
A moment of translucent clarity–that boundary of brown– That all colors melt to like the ground–dappled with her sweat. Yet at the beginning of darkness, she sees, distinguishes still: The purple dome and the church she never saw, and had no use for. For that was the color that lured her brother away. She had no use for that grandiosity. She wondered if she still retains faith in Father, When the sun sets and the moon comes by And the silence of the night perturbs memory Of Father who knew it all and talked but was powerless to stop the destruction of his son.
About the Author: Tiffany Troy is a poet based in Flushing, Queens. Her poems have appeared in Chrysanthemum, Portales, Tabula Rasa, Quarto, and the Underground and have been awarded the Core Scholar Prize and Louis Sudler Prize in the Arts. She is a CA/T Community Class participant since 2017. This poem was written in the Art of Ekphrasis, taught by Emma O’Leary in Spring 2019.
Image Credit: Jules Breton The Song of the Lark (1884) Public Domain