Janice D. Soderling has her writing base in Sweden but hails from the United States. Her poetry/fiction/translations have appeared in the print journals Malahat Review, Fiddlehead, Event, and Windsor Review, Glimmer Train Stories (first place winner), Beloit Poetry Journal. Work recently on-line: Centrifugal Eye, Literary Bohemian, Frostwriting, Hobble Creek Review, Prick of the Spindle, and soon forthcoming at JMWW, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Umbrella Journal, Soundzine, and Shit Creek Review. Forthcoming in print at Blue Unicorn (US) and Anon (Scotland).
Whenever I hear the word love I release
the safety pin on my panties
Goosestepping along the beach,
looking for something to
believe in, I
Noticed all the little clams
poking their round, bald heads
inquisitively out of the sand
to see what was causing the
Most of them sported a large,
luxuriant mustachio, such
as the one N wore,
Though many were eyeless.
"G’day, mate," one of them, balder
and bolder than the rest,
remarked gravely. "My
name is F and I must
inform you that the author
Since a long time ago, so there is
no point in your frantically
pacing back and forth like
that, we would like to get
some sleep, d’ya mind?"
There was this woman who could fly, her feet
Flapping her to glorious heights, though they
Duckbilled-platypus-size, these webbed
Attached to shapely legs, were more powerful
than you might imagine.
She was a big woman too, but when she twitched
her broad tail, and kicked off her red
spike heels, a kind of reverse Cinderella
Could paddle herself (and her partner(s)) to
previously unknown heights.
“It is nice being angel-like without the
“Wingless is anonymous,”
Were some of her thoughts as she lay flat
on her back or not, but smiling,
Oh, web-footed woman, this soaring song is for
you from all of us who try to fly without
Aubade for Catatonia
Hoarse cries of stock doves fly out of her mouth.
A cloud-heavy day edges close as a razor.
Pale butterflies abandon their harps,
lurch like drunkards along the broken rail.
In the violence of the forest, a long-eared hare
stiffens on its hind legs. There. Listening to
pine needles stitching small seams
in raveled dreams. The wind comes,
and turns, and comes again.
Turns. Comes. Turns.
You throw out the bait.
Shiny. A familiar smell.
I limp around it;
a bee seeking nectar,
a shark drawn by blood,
than the first time you caught me.
I remember everything that
I haven’t forgotten.
It was delicious. It was.
A tree full of squirrels
“Do it! Do it!”
Licking their thin, furry lips.
Fresh yolk clots their white bibs.
Pale eggshells litter the grass.
Something moving there. The wind,
a jaw talking sweet, talking shit,
and the green-winged flies closing in.