Poetry Summer 2013 fiction all issues
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Sharron Singleton
Five Poems
Sarah Giragosian
Five Poems
Jenna Kilic
Five Poems
Kristina McDonald
Five Poems
Toni Hanner
Five Poems
Annie Mascorro
Five Poems
Brittney Corrigan
Three Poems
S. E. Hudgens
Four Poems
Ali Doerscher
Four Poems
David Sloan
Three Poems
Olivia Cole
Five Poems
Lucy M. Logsdon
Four Poems
Marc Pietrzykowski
Four Poems
Donna Levine Gershon
Five Poems
Eva Heisler
The Olden Days
Stephanie Rose Adams
Five Poems
Jill Kelly
Five Encounters
Ben Bever
Five Poems
Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Five Poems
Arlene Zide
Three Poems
Harry Bauld
Five Poems
Lisa Zerkle
Four Poems
Peter Mishler
Five Poems
Tim Hawkins
Five Poems
Marqus Bobesich
Four Poems
Abigail Templeton-Greene
Five Poems
Eric Duenez
Five Poems
Anne Graue
Five Poems
Susan Laughter Meyers
Five Poems
Peter Kahn
Two Poems
D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems
Linda Sonia Miller
The Kingdom
Nicklaus Wenzel
Skagit River
Holly Cian
Five Poems
Susan Morse
Five Poems
Daniel Lassell
Five Poems
Svetlana Lavochkina
Temperate Zones
Daniel Sinderson
Three Poems
Catherine Garland
Five Poems
Michael Fleming
Five Poems
Carrion
Something holy about ravens,
a corpse in a meadow.
The doe had been shot, I think,
and staggered here to die,
blood rusted to her fur.
It had not been long,
her bones still held meat
untouched by the congregation.
They clung to her like God,
talons tore the sacrament
from her in zealous gluttony,
heads bobbed to heaven,
swallowing her down.
I went to touch the cold, flapping flesh,
probe the gaping socket with a finger
expecting who knows what—
some revelation, perhaps
an electric shudder.
They flew away when I approached,
a flapping, cawing exodus on night dark wings,
a glistening eye clenched in one beak,
the nerves still dangling out the back.
Inmate #460908
knowing this meal would be his last,
awaiting the lethal release,
ordered, for his final repast
Justice, Equality, World Peace.
By all accounts, a strange request:
how do you cook a meal like that?
Was this some form of weird protest?
How did equality taste flat
on his tongue—bitter and cold
as fingers of gin? Is justice
like barbecue—smoky and bold
home cooked, fall-off-the-bone bliss?
Why would a man who rapes and steals
want a final dinner of ideals?
Mouse
My father, in the 5 a.m. darkness
puts his hand into the kitchen sink
still filled with water and dirty dishes.
floating among the bubbles and cold grease
his hand closes on the water-logged corpse
of a drowned mouse.
To his credit, he kept a level head
carried the body into the yard
and threw it from the porch into the snow.
What he was trying to find that morning
or why he was even awake so early
I never thought to ask.
Air Burial
Tibet
The old man finally
died last night.
I got the call this morning
from one of his disciples.
The ground is too hard for digging,
wood too precious
to waste in a pyre.
They will bury him in sky.
The monks burn incense and offer
prayers as I set out my knives
and tie my leather apron.
The birds jockey for position
their monstrous wings
beating the air and each other,
their beaks and screams
mingling with the prayers.
Red-bearded lammergeiers
and cruel-taloned griffon vultures
have gathered already,
waiting for the feast to come.
I lift the cleaver and begin
my work. It is unpleasant
and I am glad for the whiskey
I drank before I started.
I remove the limbs first,
split at the elbows and knees.
The blood is thick and
already clotting.
The head comes next—
It is easier now, to work with
just a torso—I can trick myself
into believing it is a pig.
I slice the belly,
remove the entrails, liver, kidneys
and offer them to the greedy birds,
their beaks already caked
from picking at the old man’s
arms, legs, and face.
The eyes are always the first to go.
The fingers swallowed bones and all.
A squabble breaks out over the liver,
drowning out the monks.
It is torn in two and shared
as I pry open the rib cage.
When they have eaten their fill,
I will take what is left
and grind it mixed with barley,
to feed the smaller birds.
After this, there will be
only three things
that remain of the old man:
memories of him,
which will one day
be carried to the sky
with those who hold them;
pride in a job well done,
the carrion-eaters fed,
a vigil completed,
good karma for us all;
and the third thing—
a stain on the rocks,
to be washed away
with the rain.
My Grandfather’s Shoes
At midnight, my father
made pancakes shaped like our grief,
coated in Mrs. Butterworth’s
I’d bought from the 7-11
I passed on my way over.
There were no words between us.
Later, after the funeral,
Nana cleared out the basement
and gave me his last pair
of hiking shoes, barely worn
since he’d given up
the Appalachian Trail.
To think they would fit was sacrilege,
but they did. He had always been
a weathered mountain of a man,
even after the cancer;
stubborn as a rusted door-hinge,
though never as loud.
I wore his shoes, hoping
they would grant me his strength,
but now they fray at the seams,
the soles wear out,
the laces unravel.
Benjamin Bever
earned his Bachelor of Arts in 2006 from Allegheny College. The poems included here appeared as part of his thesis in completion of the Master of Fine Arts degree at George Mason University, where he was the 2012-2013 recipient of the Completion Fellowship for poetry. Other work by Benjamin has been published in Willows Wept, and he has written book reviews for The Lit Pub.