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
George Longenecker
Cape Cod Elegy
Cold wind whips a beach by a bay,
nine gulls float slowly on gusts,
in sand lies a dead coywolf,
fur russet, grey and white,
still fluffy, ears soft,
legs spread like he’s still running.
Sand has drifted over his mouth,
jaws agape showing ivory teeth.
Was he looking for snails or limpets?
Maybe he was hoping for the dead cormorant nearby
when last night’s icy wind cut through his fur
as he tried to run one last time.
Near the solitary beach coywolves
hide in pitch pine woods within sight
of Wellfleet’s white water tower—
part wolf, part coyote,
elusive as sea tides.
On the edge of the marsh a skim of ice,
everything grey and white
like the dead coywolf’s fur
in tufts between his paw pads and claws.
In the cottage yard a single rose
still blooms despite frigid November wind,
wine, warmth and supper
only take me back to the beach
where the gale whips sand through his fur.
Then I realize it’s not merely wind,
but coywolves howling,
music from the marsh.
Yard Sale
A house can be haunted by those who were never there
—Louis MacNeice
Under an awning await furnishings,
exposed and alone without the house,
which has been emptied of the maple table
where first sun shone each day
on coffee cups and worn silver spoons,
emptied of oak four-posted bed
where for fifty years,
two people loved and awoke each day,
of matching bureau whose drawers
held socks and underwear.
This house is empty of the cradle
where children first slept,
empty of carpets chairs, knives,
spoons and forks, mops and clocks.
Window panes reflect bare floors.
Signs advertise the sale. Furnishings sit,
while two curious crows swoop overhead,
while the empty house waits.
The clocks tell no time.
Car doors slam as the yard sale begins.
Crows caw once, twice, circle over.
Soon the oak bureau, maple table,
bed, cradle and clocks are gone.
All that was there is gone.
Inside, the house is too quiet, too bright.
Chimera
I wake up kissing a pig,
she asks me if I think there’s a God,
even before she asks me what I’d like for breakfast—
I know better than to say bacon—
scrambled eggs with biscuits and grits, please.
Human stem cells can be legally implanted
in pig and other animals’ embryos—
it was in the news yesterday—
human brain, liver and heart cells.
I can feel her heart beat,
different than before when she was just a pig,
71 beats a minute just like mine
(except during sex or exercise)
but I’m not ready to jog with a pig—
and I can’t even think about sex—
so many nipples.
She throws on a nightie,
I hear her hooves clatter downstairs,
smell coffee.
I wonder if I’d be more compatible
with a sheep or a dog.
Live Science August 5, 2016
“Strange Beasts: Why Human-Animal Chimeras Might Be Coming”
—Rachael Rettner, Senior Writer
Silence Comes
This morning the last geese passed south
a few honking stragglers in a small vee
brown leaves fluttered in beech trees
I realized how silent it was
snowflakes whispered on my coat
the only other sounds
a few chickadees calling from pines
and a distant train whistle
Mailbox
alone on a hilltop
gray paint flaking
flag missing
beside a narrow road so little-used
grass grows down the middle
its broken door hangs by one hinge
vibrates in the breeze
a faint harmonica off key
most days when I pass it’s empty
this winter morning snow blows everywhere
one crow perches on its crest
today a postcard
a drugstore circular
and a little snow inside
the house cannot be seen from anywhere
two sets of footprints in a dusting of snow
someone has come and gone twice
come too soon
waiting perhaps for this card
or just waiting
I can’t tell where the tracks come from
and wonder who lives in such loneliness
that mercy hinges on a postcard
George Longenecker
lives in Middlesex, Vermont. The woods around his home inspire his poetry, as do strange stories in the news. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Main Street Rag, Poetry Quarterly, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Two Cities Review, Whale Road Review, Saranac Review and War, Literature & the Arts. His book Star Route is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publishing.