Poetry Summer 2017 fiction all issues
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Cover Marija Zaric
Kathryn Merwin
For Aaron, Disenchanted
& other poems
William Stevens
Celestial Bodies
& other poems
Kendra Poole
Take-Off, or The Philosophy of Leaving
& other poems
AJ Powell
Mama Atlas
& other poems
Matt Farrell
Waves in the dark
& other poems
Timothy Walsh
Eating a Horsemeat Sandwich at Astana Airport
& other poems
Nancy Rakoczy
Adam
& other poems
Joshua Levy
Venezuela Evening
& other poems
Ryan Lawrence
Vegan Teen Daughter vs. Worthless Dad
& other poems
George Longenecker
Yard Sale
& other poems
Susanna Kittredge
My Heart
& other poems
Morgan Gilson
Dostoevsky
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
The Annihilation of Bees
& other poems
Taylor Bell
Browsing Tinder in an Aldi
& other poems
David Anderson
Continental Rift
& other poems
Charles McGregor
The Boys That Don’t Know
& other poems
Cameron Scott
Ashes to Smashes, Dust to Rust
& other poems
Kenneth Homer
Inferno Redux
& other poems
Alice Ashe
lilith
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
Marriage's Weekly Schedule
& other poems
Kim Alfred
Soul Eclipse
& other poems
Joshua Levy
Venezuela Evening
Sweat and sea salt
glitter in the hairy vines
of the old man’s beard:
Venezuela, Christmas day, 2016.
His guitar is a lemon slice
he squeezes against his ribs,
pouring his audience blues lemonade.
Between his sun tan and the restaurant tables
a local woman dances, caught like a fish in his song.
Her good looks flap against an orange sky.
When he goes to the bathroom abandoning his chair,
freckled girls search the hollow of his guitar
for rabbits, moonlight, magic.
I’m lying at the other end of the beach
—the shadowy end—feeling the ocean hurtle
crab dust on to my back.
Musing about the stork I saw this morning
stab the water
like scissors through an ancient mirror
and feeling happier because I saw it.
Now I can hear the tourists
guillotining their burgers and fries.
The wind reeks of banana rum, lobster.
A toilet flushes and the man’s
fingers find the Spanish chords,
warm as blood.
I ask the clouds for messages.
Kibbutz Hazorea
The size of Canada makes me shiver
as I rest on this sliver of a country.
On days off we change colours
on Haifa’s Carmel beach,
gamble with ear-marked cards,
throw down 10 shekel bills for large
mixed drinks of fruit and milk
and compare Hebrew expressions
culled from restaurant napkins.
We watch the waves crawl to sand on shredded knees;
exhausted from splashing with Spanish fleets,
swimming under French bathers’ legs,
being kicked by Italy’s boot,
and melted by Greek sunsets.
Final stop of the Mediterranean.
I’m sitting to the side of the group
a guitar on my hip,
Pia’s lips curling around the edges of my song.
Grooves line her brow. A trench between
her upper lip and nose deepens when she eats.
The pale skin under her eyes always has a veiny blue hue.
In short, I’m in love.
Pia, why do you have a boyfriend
tucked away back home
like a bookmark?
The Beach
Life is simple on the beach.
Seagulls are kites tugged by mermaids.
Jellyfish lie marooned in blue heaps, deflating their poison.
Seashells remind me that bodies are temporary homes.
I surrender my sandcastle to the waves’ kisses
and smile back at a couple jogging by. Love cannot be hoarded.
An ocean breeze leafs through my book like a very old woman
licking her fingers before flipping each page.
There is commerce in the ocean:
a frantic swapping of fish and shells and secrets
but no luck for the fisherman
who throws up his arms, and says to his son: “Nobody’s home.”
Boat after boat falls
over the horizon’s harsh plank.
Joshua Levy
tells stories on CBC Radio, creative non-fiction in The Rumpus and the Oxford University Press, and poetry on magnetic fridges. He splits his time between Canada and Portugal, with his wife.