Poetry Summer 2021 fiction all issues
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Diana Akhmetianova
Monique Jonath
Viscosity
& other poems
Alix Christofides Lowenthal
Before and After
& other poems
Rebbekah Vega-Romero
La Persona Que Quiero Ser
& other poems
Oak Morse
Incandescent Light That Peeks Through Secrets
& other poems
George Kramer
The Last Aspen Stand
& other poems
Elizabeth Sutterlin
Meditations on Mars
& other poems
Holly Marie Roland
Clearfelling
& other poems
Devon Bohm
A Bouquet of Cherry Blossoms
& other poems
Ana Reisens
In praise of an everyday object
& other poems
Maxi Wardcantori
The Understory
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
Sometimes
& other poems
Karen L Kilcup
The Sky Is Just About to Fall
& other poems
Pamela Wax
He dreams of birds
& other poems
Mary Jane Panke
Apophasis
& other poems
a mykl herdklotz
Mouettes et Mastodontes
& other poems
Claudia Maurino
Good Pilgrim
& other poems
Mary Pacifico Curtis
One Mystical Day
& other poems
Tess Cooper
Airport Poem
& other poems
Peter Kent
Congress of Ravens
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
White Women Running
& other poems
Bill Cushing
Creating a Corpse
& other poems
Everett Roberts
Hagar
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Canada Geese
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Stones
Stones in my pocket pity me,
I who stand in awe of the world.
In the woods, pine trees welcome me,
invite me to touch rough bark.
Smooth stones in my hands leer
or smile depending on the light.
Ahead, the dogs trot not knowing
they are perfect, bidding me hurry,
they move with grace and bliss
as I stumble through barberry.
At home, I savor wine in a glass,
lambs ear glows in the garden.
Breezes gust through open windows,
the Whip-poor-will softly trills.
There are warm stones in my pocket
fitted against my palm. I hold on.
Imagine
your students line up in rows, answer questions,
laugh at your jokes, hold the door,
bless you when you sneeze.
Imagine how it feels to wonder, “Who has a gun?”
The thought comes unbidden as we play word games,
brows furrowed, determined to succeed.
The question, “What is a baby swan called?”
I love them, yet this warmth is tainted with fear.
A shelf falls in the next room,
and as one we startle—then they fix
their eyes on me, looking for safety.
Swans tuck their young under wings,
but even if I had them, my wings
could not fend off bullets.
When predators approach, the Kildeer flails
its wing, limps, calls loudly, “Follow me.”
The chicks hide, soft down blends with grass.
My students play the game—the answer is cygnet.
I imagine a gun in my desk nestled among pencils, stickers, and gum:
I squeeze the trigger, blood explodes, papers scatter, children scream.
My students sit in a row, obedient, compliant,
trusting me, not knowing I do not trust this world.
I have no gun, only my steady heart gripping its fear.
The White Hen
Atilt, a white sailboat tipped askew
the hen propels her bulk.
Claws tear dry leaves, wings raised,
she imagines flight and trundles toward her coop.
The hawk’s shadow circles, reptilian eyes
target the soft curve of her neck:
the place where talons sever heads.
She hurries, my hen, July sun on her feathers,
nothing more important than the nesting bin
where there are no predators, only
lovely moon-shaped eggs waiting for her warmth.
I hold my breath, will her to hurry,
and she reaches the coop. I know,
without looking, she has planted herself atop eggs
head first, tail feathers protruding—a bouquet.
The hawk circles in the sky.
One less death in a world that wears us out,
this hen’s victory a small joy to relish.
I return to the house, my own nesting bin.
Somewhere there are lovely moon-shaped eggs.
Embrace
Water embraced me as a child.
Summers I toppled backward off the
pier and into the warm lake
submerged in shallow depths
where seaweed floated over my face.
Small fish nosed my legs
as I invaded their territory.
My feet pressed into soft sand
ridged by the waves, and
the smell of fish floated above
lily pads floating lazily under a high sun.
Now, I am landlocked,
perch on chairs, tap out words,
tend to my restless dog,
spark kindling in the stove,
hold my hands to the heat and sigh.
Still, somewhere, a girl splashes in a lake,
water sparkles, bullfrogs croak,
coots dive, and she listens—there—
at the foot of an apple tree,
the mourning dove croons, sweet and slow.
Canada Geese
Canada geese call across a frozen sky.
Black forms traverse the moon’s wide face,
clouds float mindlessly across a silver sheen.
I look up from my snow-covered garden—
these cries open my heart.
How would it be to glide in their midst,
flow on currents, be shielded by wings?
To sing in a minor key, alert
my mate, warn my family?
Geese track stars across great lakes,
mountains, farmlands, cities blink away darkness.
They return to nest sites warmed
by spring air, fragrant blossoms, long days.
The honking fades and birds wing away.
I weigh the loss of wild song become memory.
Inside my house a fire burns, a sulky cat prowls.
I balance on ice, take the lead, buffer birds
behind me, eddying, dipping, following the moon.
Susan Marie Powers
I have enjoyed writing creatively since I was a small child, but reading is more important to me than writing. Great literature consistently enriches my life. I obtained graduate degrees in English and Psychology and have taught at high schools and colleges. My poems are published in previous issues of Sixfold (Winter 2014, Summer 2020), Tiferet (2010), and Teacher-Writer (Fall 2013). In 2010, The New London Librarium published my chapbook, Break the Spell.