Wild River Review art by Christopher McCauley



SPOTLIGHT: Fly Me to the Moon — A Conversation with Mathematician and Artist, Ed Belbruno

COLUMN: Storiedmusic by DJ T’challah

AIRMAIL: Bodhi Blues — A Year in India by Jessica Falcone

NOVEL EXCERPT: Blood Grip — Chapter 2

REVIEW: Gulliver as Slave Trader — Racism Reviled by Jonathan Swift

Where I Belong

I surrendered to the pull on my body,
some magnetic force drawing me
past the cocktail language, coifed
hair, Capri pants and Stuart Weitzman sandals,
through the Widdicomb chaise of flowered damask
beyond the brown and gold striped brocade wallpaper
between the particles of drywall
and into the space that separates
the here-and-now
from the there-and-then

spider webs with mummy flies,
remnants of the builders —
an empty bottle of Piels with a blanket of dust,
resting like a soldier against the stud
a crumpled pack of Camels and
a paper sack with Joe scribbled in pencil

Here in the solitude,
my forehead against the lathing,
cacophony muted, at last
I exhale pent-up expectations,
expel forced conviviality

What if I could remain always inside these walls
to glide unseen between rooms —
a forgotten guest —
untouched by daily woes

to remain nestled
in my cobwebbed utopian world.

Christine McKee

Christine McKee

Christine McKee has played around the edges of poetry for many years while pursuing meaningful employment. Now that retirement is on the horizon, she understands her past folly and has reversed her priorities. Some of poems have been published in the Bucks County Writer and L’Stange Café. Other interests include opera, travel, reading, and being outdoors.

POETRY: Where are you now?
POETRY: Where I Belong