Poetry Summer 2019
fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover Antoine Petitteville
Laura Apol
Easter Morning
& other poems
Taylor Dibble
A Masterpiece in Progress
& other poems
Julia Roth
Lessons From My Menstrual Cup
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Ceaseless Wind. The Drying Sheaves
& other poems
Nicole Yackley
Mea Culpa
& other poems
George Longenecker
I’m sentimental for the Paleolithic
& other poems
Taylor Gardner
Short Observations by Angels
& other poems
Greg Tuleja
No Thomas Hardy
& other poems
Joanne Monte
War Casualties
& other poems
Nathaniel Cairney
Potato Harvest
& other poems
Steven Dale Davison
Wordsmouth Harbor Founder
& other poems
Heather 'Byrd' Roberts
How I Named Her
& other poems
Greenheart
sunny ex
& other poems
Ashton Vaughn
Through the Valley of Mount Chimaera
& other poems
Linda Speckhals
Borderlands
& other poems
Lucy Griffith
Breathing Room
& other poems
Steven Valentine
Written
& other poems
Emily Varvel
B is for Boys and G is for Guys
& other poems
Jhazalyn Prince
Priceless Body
& other poems
Marte Stuart
Generation Snowflake
& other poems
S.J. Enloe
Kale Soup
& other poems
Meghan Dunsmuir
Our Path
& other poems
Linda Speckhals
Death Wears a Speedo
His bones chatter when his body trembles a laugh
you’re too bony for a red speedo
she said as if
he hadn’t heard that one before
Sometimes, he tells her,
But sometimes even this
Speedo can’t protect me
And he clutches his scythe because
even though he’s shed his black robe, he may
still have a job to do, even on the beach on
a hot summer day
especially on the beach on a hot summer day
Sometimes, he says,
I just want to feel the sun
warming my bones
Are you the type,
he asks,
who never imagines
what it would be like
if you weren’t scissored into shape
by those who look up
and assume the perfect sky
has no clouds
The type
who never dreams of glitter wings and
floating like a flower
on the spring breeze
afraid of being more bird than human
though your blood would still vibrate in music and you would still love the sounds of thinking and the feeling of skin on skin
To be so much more, like Death in a speedo, lying on the beach, unafraid of the stares, soaking in the sun
and listening to the
beat
beat
beat
of the ocean
as it pulses through the veins of the world
Borderlands
She traced a line in the summer sand,
Asked a stranger to dare her
To step over
As if that would disappear it.
His feet followed his gaze away and
Silent across the sand
Leaving her to watch the tide
smooth the sand and remind her again and again and again
That sometimes wishes don’t materialize
And sometimes the string of someone else’s balloon binds
Her wrists together
And sometimes she knows that the only thing she can do
Is to hide the ocean in her memory
And return to the road.
She drove towards home
But when the exit came
She went straight
Past the sign that said
Welcome to Pennsylvania
And the words “if not now,
When?”
Echoed in the empty car.
She accelerated
And imagined the rush of gas was like the rush of her own blood or
the rush of mere expectation that crossing this border
would be crossing to a new life
She closed her eyes
Felt the rush of disappointment
Just like when she kissed her best friend,
Felt his scruff exfoliate her chin.
Crossing that border too
Left her disappointed
Like a blue balloon
Caught
In the branches
Of an old pine tree
Blue like the sky: A Pantoum
Blue like the sky
As I feel the caress of clouds
I long to swim in the air
And feel the sun on my face
As I feel the caress of clouds
Until the rainstorm passes
And I feel the sun on my face
From your gentle smile
Until the rainstorm passes
And the curtain clouds part
From your gentle smile
And the sky shifts to night
The curtain clouds part
While I sleep under the stars
And the sky shifts to night
I let the waves wash over me
While I sleep under the stars
Blanketed by your warmth
The waves wash over me
I long to swim in the air
Blanketed by your warmth
The waves wash over me
I long to swim in the air
Blue like the sky
Around 3
He deserts his children each day around 3
Leaving them in midswing on the tire
That hangs from the ancient tree in the backyard
Or while they sip tea with pinkies extended
Like the adults they want to be
Or while they play tug of war with the crayons
They need to create their art
Or while they are giggling or imagining or telling stories.
He is a gliding centipede,
Passing over the toys and debris of family life
He drifts out of time
And away from now
And into that 3 o’clock moment.
One day, maybe
His children will look into his eyes
As the hand of the clock ticks into its place,
Hugging the 3
They will see that he’s not there.
For 
Linda Speckhals, poetry is truly an act of rebellion. When she was young, her father told her she could be anything she wanted to be. Except a poet. She recently released a poetry collection, Pas de Deux, a collection of poems that tell a story of love and loss. It is available on Amazon.