About a year ago, I heard about a mini lit mag called Queen of Cups that was delivered weekly to the inbox of every subscriber. It was free to subscribe, and I am pretty certain I was one of the first subscribers. The project sounded interesting, and it only took me a few issues to figure out I wanted to be a part of this, if I could. Each issue features a reading of a tarot card and the work of one contemporary writer in one genre—poetry, micro fiction, micro non-fiction—as well as a writing prompt.
Sarah Sousa, the editor, calls Queen of Cups “a morsel of literature consumed in one sitting, nourishing you the day through.” And it is.
So last year I sent in a batch of poems, and some weeks later, to my great happiness, Sarah accepted some to be published.
If you read the magazine, you can tell that it must take a lot of work to put together, especially weekly. Recently I found out that Sarah is ending Queen of Cups at the one-year mark, on the May 17, 2017 issue. And though I am sad to see the magazine go, it has been a great run, and I loved reading the diverse writers every week. I want to thank Sarah for all of the hours she spent on it, and for giving so many of us a chance.
Below is one of the poems of mine published in Queen of Cups.
Designed by Fire
“This natural habitat garden is burned yearly to stimulate processes which are part of the endangered longleaf pine ecosystem. Fire plays an important part in promoting the growth of a high diversity of plants here and in the real pine savannas of the state." From the NC Botanical Garden on its Coastal Plain and Sandhills Habitats
We stand still before the pine savanna
From this once-ignited tract,
pitcher plants, butterwort and sundew
spring up in the clearing they tag,
“designed by fire.” Pine cones release seed,
making new from flame.
Earlier, we sat on rock
over Meeting-of-the-Waters Creek.
Our feet dangled,
but never touched the cool
below as we talked about our future,
what can grow
in this space
where our failed marriages have cracked
and sizzled our courage and beliefs.
We flung words—I don’t know if
and we might never
be able to—
like smoldering brush
at each other
and they stung.
And now—where I could only see our blackened spirits—there is this:
the small pine trees waving back and forth,
Next post, I will feature a beautiful little poem by David Hassler as my last post for April's National Poetry Month.