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
Bubble
Our billions begin
as cell knit to cell.
We’re always
shifting
to something
else. A stacking
of cosmic bricks.
Ancient shells
over time
become limestone.
This graphite
scratching words
at the tip
of a pencil.
This diamond
for the bride.
Atoms
come together
to be stable. How
do you name
their need
to settle? They level
like clouds
spark to ground,
like lungs release
breath. We’re
half carbon,
the stuff
that straps together
the universe.
Vigor or structure
in every living
thing. We’re
buttoned one
to one, all bound
to earth. Energy
can’t be made
or destroyed, only
changed, one form
to another. Leaves
part from trees,
molder into dirt,
rise again to leach
sugar from sunlight.
Without breath,
we’ll burst
into leaf, once
unleashed
from this bone
and flesh.
The Definition of Friction
Two bodies so close. To move, one body
must overcome inertia. It’s easier to keep
still. A force resists. A daughter
leaves her mother. She packs
a small shoebox full of clean
underwear, stomps her way to the top
of the street before returning. A few years later
the daughter runs to the woods, stays
until a thorn pierces the bare arch
of her foot. It’s the constant battle
with momentum. Once bodies move,
they tend to keep on
going. Slide a key across a table, friction
stops it. Maybe the key to the house. Maybe
the key to the car. Bonds form, heat
releases. The afterglow
of an open hand, its imprint rising
on her face. Look closely
at a surface that appears even—
it’s rough, pocked with microscopic
hills and valleys. Tires slap against blacktop,
the rougher the surface the more the friction.
A physicist says someday
our levitating cars will zip
from coast to coast by little more
than a touch. How much will be enough?
The touch of a mother’s lips brushing
her baby’s dreaming eyelids? A balled
fist, breath released from a sigh? For now,
it takes gallons of gas
to get the hell out, to escape
the pull of air, of wheels on the road.
Delmonico’s, At the Turn
Bernhardt orders bisque. She really wants
a nod from Tesla, the fair-eyed inventor
just back from Paris. It’s hopeless,
he’s given up sex for science. Not
to mention his aversion to germs, ladies’ curls,
pearls. Each night before he dines, he shines
the already spotless knives with spotless linens.
In the satin-lined dining room, fellow patrons
choose alligator pears from Peru, steak Hamburg,
pommes frites. Mirrored walls reflect kidskin gloves,
lavish plumes, and the silver chandeliers’ new wattage
gleaming gold on mahogany. Over Maryland terrapin,
Twain tells how in Tesla’s lab he was electrified, hair
a shaggy nimbus, fingers tingling. New energy! he extolls,
predicting Tesla’s patent will be the most valuable since
the telephone. After supper, they’ll stroll one by one
through the garden at Madison Square, soft leather shoes
leaving impressions in the gravel paths. But now
Astor and Vanderbilt polish off the Baked Alaska.
The New Century editor takes note. Bernhardt
bats her eyes over a cold bowl.
Dynamo
An inventor’s job is to lay the foundation for those who are to come and point the way.
—Nikola Tesla
Given to visions, Tesla
has seen the air around him
filled with tongues of living
flame. Accosted by the ticking
of a watch, the dull thud of a fly
alighting, it’s hard to still
his thoughts. He walks, as a friend
suggests. Fresh air. The riverside
park in Budapest. The February sun
wheels towards horizon, setting
the Danube aflame. As the sun slides
to light another sky, Tesla lifts his arms,
quotes Faust to his friend, The glow
retreats, done is the day of toil. In a flash
he sees a wheel of power. One
current fades, another blooms.
A dynamic orbit, an endless loop
of energy. Grabbing a stick, Tesla
sketches in the sand, this, his perfect
motor. No more will men be slaves
to hard tasks. My motor will set them free.
(Oh Tesla, this success will leave you
penniless, without love or family.)
Soon, he’ll make his debut
at the Chicago World’s Fair—energy
passing through his body until his suit
seems to emit fine glimmers or halos
of splintered light. How his mind,
his brilliance, shines.
Lisa Zerkle
’s work was featured in the Nimrod and in Press 53’s Spotlight anthology. Her work is forthcoming in The Ledge magazine, Charlotte Viewpoint, and has appeared in poemmemoirstory, Crucible, Main Street Rag and Literary Mama, among others. She has served as President of the North Carolina Poetry Society, community columnist for The Charlotte Observer, and co-editor of Kakalak. Heart of the Light, her first chapbook, is available from Finishing Line Press.