Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems
Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems
Tee Iseminger
Construction
& other poems
Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems
Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems
Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems
Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems
Daniel Stewart
January
& other poems
John Glowney
Cigarettes
& other poems
Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems
Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems
Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems
David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems
Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems
Rande Mack
rat
& other poems
J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems
Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems
James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems
Kelsey Charles
Autobiography
& other poems
Therese L. Broderick
Polly
& other poems
Lane Falcon
Touch
& other poems
Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems
Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems
David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems
Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems
Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems
Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems
David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems
Helen R. Peterson
Ablaut
& other poems
Polly
Better that my daughter forget
her weakest rabbit, one I loved
the most, white runt Polly
born lame, her red eyes
the spitting image of rabid;
and kept away from our cat,
penned inside our zoo—
warmest upstairs room—
which might’ve been filled with
a baby crib, rocker,
and a table for all those changes
of onesies, had I ever wanted
to have another baby, but no,
never did want
to risk
playing favorites. And better that
my little girl was sleeping
that evening Polly shriveled
like a flawed corsage
on the carpet, between my knees,
on my lap her rear leg ceasing
to twitch: first of twenty limbs
to wither. First rabbit to die,
just shy of those four equal
survivors, my sturdy orphans.
To the Motionless One in Egypt
Pup, will you lift your dry head, open dusty eyelids
if I slap you hard on your ribs, tug at your right ear,
force open your jaws with the rim of my bottle,
will you rise on front paws if I flee my tour, leap
into this pit of crumbling columns, only shade for miles
you might perish in—or the other strays pant in—
which parchment was once your milking mother?
Pup, are you sinking through Valley of the Queens
or sailing to Ra, or will you rouse soon as I’ve gone
back to the bus, through tinted windows glimpsing
your resurrection but forbidden—ever—to touch
the miracle, to rest my hand on your salting belly.
Pistol Squat
Fuck any aim of Zen
humility.
I do squats as means
of combat, BMI
held to 20.
Right knee bent, left leg deployed
like the barrel of a
handgun.
Ankle cocked & hard core
burning down
inch by
inch.
Target: the toe:
Fix it.
three two one
Fire.
The Old Stylist
She soothes by comb, making it all better,
she wants to make hairs happy once
again, as they were before neglect—
my cheap shampoo, steely bristles—
and she wants to move to a city warm
with tropical reds & mauves & yellows,
new textures she can improve upon
every eight weeks, or six
and she doesn’t want the water spray too hot
on my head or the dryer helmet too close
or the cut too short, or highlights too bright
for my grey eyes, she wants to retire
after a few more years of this, squeezing perfect
tablespoons of perm gel, rescuing roots,
coating every gal in her chair with bliss: the do
will be so much easier going forward.
With Lines from All My Diaries Since the Millennium
She rehearses the words of Zeus, aloud,
waiting in bed
for breakfast.
Mistletoe is a veiled parasite,
and my party mask is the back
of a round mirror.
Of the pumpkin
she takes 50 photos, then says to me,
you’re too overflowing.
My husband’s mother (God help her)
put Superglue in the corner
of a false eyelash.
2010 was the best year of my life:
I almost had Asperger’s. Until
my doctors agreed: you don’t have Asperger’s.
Loud, soft, loud, soft: patterns
I snore in. He groans in.
“Singers Wanted”
pleads a bumper sticker;
“Sonnet”
declaims a license plate.
Did you know that some tornadoes
can swirl invisible?
Therese L. Broderick
has spent many years serving her poetry community in Albany, New York, as an open-mic reader, teacher, contest judge, Board member, classroom guest, blogger, and Poet Laureate of a local tavern.