Poetry Summer 2022 fiction all issues
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Joanne Monte
Departure
& other poems
Holly York
Still When I Reach for the Leash
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
Catholicism Still Lingers in a Concrete Poem
& other poems
D.T. Christensen
Coded Language
& other poems
Laura Faith
Ungodly
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
Winter in Choctaw
& other poems
Natalie LaFrance-Slack
Peace
& other poems
Nicole Sellino
iii. moving, an interruption
& other poems
Gilaine Fiezmont
In Memoriam / Day of the Dead
& other poems
Sheri Flowers Anderson
On Being A Widow
& other poems
RJ Gryder
Felling
& other poems
William S. Barnes
to hatch
& other poems
Suzannah Van Gelder
Idolatry
& other poems
Sam Bible-Sullivan
The Dying Worker’s Soliloquy
& other poems
Hills Snyder
Eclipse (July 4, 2020)
& other poems
Lauren Fulton
Birth Marks
& other poems
David Sloan
Prostrate
& other poems
Nancy Kangas
Dry Dock Cranes of Brooklyn Navy Yard
& other poems
Noreen Graf
In Attendance
& other poems
Jim Bohen
Nothing Tea
& other poems
Thomas Baranski
Let us name him dread and look forward
& other poems
Sheri Flowers Anderson
On Being a Widow
I mean I miss
the momentary back rubs,
the warmth of your hand
on the spinal pain between
my shoulder blades,
but maybe I sleep better
now that you’re not here. Or maybe not.
The void is wide open, expansive enough
for both wakefulness and dreams
in the absence of your maleness
not pressed into me at two in the morning,
in the weightlessness of your forearm
no longer laying across my side,
in the empty air where your fingers
no longer seek my belly and breast,
in me not fetus curled
while you embrace me in sleep,
not folded inside your
singular reach of us, not matching
your rhythmic breath.
My solitary breath—I hardly hear it—
continues without you,
the way memory of that slow dance in our dreams
lingers within my skin.
We Are All Dying
The ash tree in our front yard is dying.
Every morning branches and twigs are in the yard,
the droppings of old age, the weariness of holding on,
worn thin and brittle by expansive exposure.
Before cutting the grass, we gather these branches,
not acknowledging their peaceful end nor the jagged sorrow
that pokes and tears through plastic trash bags.
Like the branches and twigs, we too become weary, weakened
by strong winds, soft winds, the slow watershed of loss,
by the constant lifting of daily life.
We drop parts and pieces of us every day—
our hands less steady than before,
our balance a bit off as we stand,
eyesight weak in annoying dim light,
dropped words we strain to hear.
We plop memories into shallow pools of refreshment—
our iced tea or hot coffee or energy drinks—
trying to maintain our rooted strength.
Our arms outstretched, we seek hugs, normalcy,
or even lift them in praise,
though we flail in even the softest breeze,
stumble at even the slightest lean.
The Marks of Good Intentions
Unfinished projects leave a trail
of invisible punctuation.
For months—or even years—
exclamation marks surround
abandoned notebooks.
And question marks slip into junk drawers
stuffed with justifiable randomness.
And ellipses dots follow paint cans that
patiently collect dust in the garage.
And partially read books
protect fancy bookmarks like hyphens.
Unfinished projects land softly
in a halfway house in the mind and heart,
that parenthetical space of our to-do list.
We feel the quiet tug of commas,
like tiny hands reaching for us.
Sheri Flowers Anderson
, for many years, wrote poetry and stories in the slim margins around work hours and a busy family schedule until her recent happy retirement from her day job. Her poetry has been published in local magazines and anthologies. She currently lives and writes in San Antonio, Texas.