Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
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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
Baby Names
Let’s call him Baby Doom
or maybe Tricycle Madness would better suit him
or Lester’s Little Secret, Braunze, Fire Catcher
Blood Drinker or The Dream Machine
Samuel is nice too, I know
but you ruled that one out months ago
You also ruled out Jacob, Peter, Daniel, Addison
and Joseph
which was my baby name brainchild but
oh well
You are right to want something flashier
like Superjerk, Gnashings St. Claire, Lydio
Brother’s Bane, Davidson
or even just Slice
He will go on to do great things potentially
Of this your blond-winged friend was certain
so long, he said, as we pick just the right name
And so we must ask ourselves
would Cookies N’ Cream rid the world of evil
or merely turn the other cheek?
Could an angry Clementine overturn a money table?
I think not, but Jesus might
Why not Jesus?
Or how about Jeezus
Now there’s a boy destined for something greater
a boy who could easily hold his own inside the ring
maybe an Italian with a great sob story
I can already see the headlines and the VIP tickets proclaiming
Red Foam Drinker versus Little Baby Jeezus
I see our root beer cups overflowing as our heavenly son
deals RFD a left hook for the ages
fated, unable to hold back, winning
all the fruits of our careful planning
Out of Time
My father is flowing clockwise
in a holiday sweater vest and a gold chain watch
He is down in the groove, swimming through
the electric grey rooms
kept warm by the stove light, and on the table
a bowl of ham and pea soup
Immigration was his grandfather’s story
yet he too finds comfort in the small
At night, laying himself in the arms of his armchair
he can at last afford to go nowhere
My mother is flowing counter-clockwise
still as beautiful as she was
fifteen years ago, twenty years
back when the sun and sky made a point
to match everything that she wore
I believe now that they even changed colors
for her secret moods
Had I known it then I might have seen her apart from me
Her jade necklace is timeless
Her laughter is timeless, his records and her red coat
that he gave her that she always wore
I grow
I am the clock–the testament to the full length of things
I tell it like it is
The dinner plates with the hearts on the rims, they are timeless
until another one breaks (not out of anger)
Not out of anger, I dropped it
Out of time
She asks, How many are left?
A wedding present, he says, it was our very first set
How many are left?
I point:
Two
We Can Sell the Antiques
On most East Coast beaches
the shorelines and their crowds tend to look the same
So long as you don’t look at either too long or too hard
or lift your eyes to see a lighthouse
twirling about in some other town’s coat of paint
you can fool yourself
There is a mansion in Asbury Park filled with junk you can never quite unsee
Six door knocker faces, a pair of red kissing manikin torsos, twenty-three beautician’s scissors
dulling in the back of your brain’s dark closet
sorry-eyed, turning undead
all of it grooming a monstrous shadow
until there might be anything in that house
and everything in there might remind you of it
Today it is crowded
on the beach where kids seem to have only one kind of scream
Small talk, heavy feet, dark eyes
She must know that she is not the one walking beside you today
but so long as she doesn’t risk everything with a look, two distressed searchlights, blue
she can fool herself too
Death Considers the Buttercups
One track, one mind
Death must glide along these buttercups
without pausing to consider them
even as they hug the train of his cloak
in their harmless fervor to be chosen
by truly anyone
And yet, in a small and secret way
hidden as his hands and feet
that are weary for their journey’s end
by the shed where his old man waits
still humming in his wife’s wide-brimmed hat,
Death does consider them
The buttercups, who let him go just as quietly, no thorns
leaving only a yellow signature (a suggestion) to be remembered by
He would have sucked them dry
or at least taken a few lazy, arching swipes at their heads
but it isn’t their time yet and besides
he still has a long way to go
On Lent
Low ceilings are still en vogue
as is setting aside money in small increments
to prepare for the wise and lonely years
We all at times need God’s wrath or a Great Depression
to keep our thoughts from becoming too silly or from towering precariously
I vow to not be so outlandish
with my spending
and to apply this kind of discipline to future relationships
so that one day I may find and keep true adult love
For Lent I used to give up red squash
which I hated just as much as the other colors of squash
the purple, the green, the blue
I still do
I regret the bacon bits that ended up on my salad yesterday
that were not supposed to end up there
I pray for the strength to avoid the near occasion of bacon bits
And to understand that true love is made up of sacrifices both small and silly
True love is unsexy and is nothing to be ashamed of
Last night I dreamed
that something surprised me so much that I
swallowed the whole world
Knowledge, Wealth, and Power drifted silently across a lake in my belly
And while I considered hurling them back into the void
I was scared that I might start a new world war and possibly get shot in it
I had firmly resolved to never give up anything
when a searching voice called out my name from deep inside of me
and I felt a great relief at being judged
Joey DeSantis
is working towards an M. Ed. at Boston College and will soon be a high school English teacher, somewhere. Maybe one day he’ll get that dream job writing for Nintendo. From substitute teaching to serving as a teaching assistant with KEYS Service Corps, AmeriCorps, working with youth makes his child at heart happy, as does writing poetry and listening to Bob Dylan.