Poetry Summer 2020 fiction all issues
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Cover Vecteezy
Rodrigo Dela Peña
If a Wound is an Entrance for Light
& other poems
Shellie Harwood
Early Evening, Late September
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
The Deacon’s Lament
& other poems
J. H. Hall
Immersion
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
Two Aphids
& other poems
Sugar le Fae
Bagging
& other poems
Lauren Sartor
Shopping Cart Woman
& other poems
Nathaniel Cairney
Mushroom Hunting, Jackson County, Kansas
& other poems
Elisa Carlsen
Cormorant
& other poems
Daniel Gorman
The Boy Achilles
& other poems
Samara Hill
I Look for Her Mostly Everywhere
& other poems
Nicole Justine Reid
Returning to Sensual
& other poems
David Ginsberg
Butterfly Wings
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Café Sant Ambroeus
& other poems
George R. Kramer
Young Odysseus
& other poems
Amy Swain
In Praise of Trees
& other poems
Frederick Shiels
Bad October: 2016
& other poems
Matthew A. Hamilton
Summer of '89
& other poems
Chris Kleinfelter
Getting from There to Here
& other poems
Martin Conte
Ghazal for the Shipwrecked
& other poems
Natalie LaFrance-Slack
I Do Not Owe You My Beauty
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Dark Water
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Dark Water
My mother dog-paddles through words
searches for the end of a sentence.
She sinks in muddy waters,
she drops to the bottom of this gray pond—
hair streams like Ophelia’s,
hands grasp seaweed,
her curved feet touch soft muck:
fish fly every which way.
I stand on shore and call out,
but I know she does not hear.
She reaches for words in the dark water,
but they float away.
Names bounce off her fingers, memories
fall onto empty shells.
She stops moving and waits, waits
at the bottom of the pond.
I want to give my mother pearls, water lilies,
daylight, bird song.
I want to hear my mother
speak my name.
I want to see my mother walk and smile.
I tell myself she is not lost, that I carry her
in my cells, the shape of my mouth,
but I do not have the words
to summon her back to me.
Wild Hearts
A young beaver coasts underwater,
skims silt and water plants.
Sleek fur undulates as he pushes
one webbed foot back, and then the other
bicycling through this dreamy waterscape.
I think about his rotund mass, freed from gravity,
the effortless glide beneath lonely waters
where minnows dart, and herons fish.
Above water, he digs, constructs his pond,
works through the night while a female floats
down the river, following his scent,
finding her home and her mate for life.
Tunnels worm through hidden depths.
Moonlight illuminates dark silhouettes
piling branches against stones.
Beavers fortify their lodge, deepen the pool,
create a world beckoning all wild hearts
to enter these black waters.
City of Widows—Vrindavan, India
After my husband died, his family spat at me.
“What do we want with you? Another mouth to feed?
Get out!” My bones could not support me,
and I fell in the gutter, begged for food.
My Lord Krishna guided me here, to my sisters,
where I am wanted, loved, where we celebrate Holi,
the festival of colors, spring, new beginnings.
We toss iridescent powder, coat ourselves in paint,
and whirl in kaleidoscope colors, swaddled in love.
All is gone—my husband, my parents, my children,
yet Lord Krishna showers me with rose petals.
I dance until I fall to the floor.
Thank you, bones, for 80 years of dancing.
Thank you, skin, drenched in colors,
Thank you, hips that sway to music.
Thank you, voice, for laughter and love.
My husband’s mother said I killed him.
How careless of me to let him die!
I was worse than a stray dog,
Twenty years old—a disgrace.
Now, sisters pull me to my feet,
embrace me, entice me—we dance,
link arms, and my voice is unleashed:
I sing to life that surprises us.
I sing to warm arms enfolding me
and the heart I feel as I lay
my head on my sister’s chest.
Petals tickle my toes, pungent
marigolds mingle with
rose. My sari and skin
stained in purple hues, purple
as the heart beating beneath my ear,
purple as the pounding rhythm of joy.
Susan Marie Powers
I live in the beautiful Connecticut woods with my family, dogs, chickens, and cat. My life’s work has been teaching, and I cherish memories of my many students. Reading and writing are also essential to me, and I published a chapbook, Break the Spell, plus my work has appeared in a few online venues including the Tiferet Journal (2011) and Sixfold (Winter 2013).