Poetry Summer 2017 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Kendra Poole
Take-Off,
or The Philosophy of Leaving
I try to imagine the time of leveling. I am glued
at an acute angle, watching the aisle arch skyward,
waiting for gravity, strapped, committed
to leaving you behind. Below, the city wrinkles,
ribbed and colorful, acrylics on earthy cardboard.
I like it better that way. I can never fall
in love for real. I’m too fond of falling out of it.
If I leave you here, you can miss the me I made
for you. Take care of her.
Already we are leveling. The sky nestled
below us, we skid over weather and sunbathe
above the atmosphere. I press my nose to the glass
to remember it is colder up here. Before we touch down,
I expect I will really miss you once and pretend
to miss you twice.
Turbulence jerks awake the sleeping, we descend
under the cover of night, dark cities are just inverted
skies: little stars dropped on their heads, calling themselves
streetlights, confused about the origin of their spark.
After reading about the Rwandan Genocide while I waited for my volunteer shift to begin at the Annual Apple Festival,
Brookside Nature Center,
Maryland.
When it started, I helped the kids
fold fingernail dirt into their apple turnovers,
little tongues licking sugar
off their fingertips, dipped back
into the bowl after. Oliver, his mom calls him,
crafts a paper crown to be the apple king.
Apple peels float in the cider. An autumn
leaf falls into the apple press. It is demolished
and then forgotten. A mother tucks her palms
under a pregnant belly while she laughs,
then spoons applesauce for the toddler.
It smells like funnelcakes and fire smoke.
I mold the apple turn-overs, crimping
the edges. I am so far away
from genocide. I slice each apple into pieces;
they are bites of family time and sunny afternoons.
Do they grow apples in Rwanda? Can you slice them
with a machete? When I walk the orchard
path to leave, I gather fallen
apples. How can I carry them all?
Kendra Poole
is from Albuquerque, NM, and graduated from the George Washington University with a degree in English and Creative Writing. Kendra is a poet who also dabbles in politics, journalism, and international development. She enjoys reading, biking, traveling, jazz, and bagels.