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
Laura Faith
Ungodly
The socks are of wool or
of some other ungodly material.
You put them on. You know
you will itch. You hate
feeling prisoner
to your skin,
but you reckon
the baby
tethered to you now
might learn to stack the books
in his playpen one day, might
show you
how at not even two
he has managed to carve
his own way out.
His yearning hangs like anvil,
like a threat
to your head,
and you, nearing thirty,
wonder why
you suddenly feel it—
a most wholesome urge
to shrink.
The Summer after Graduation
Westwood, California—June 2014
We sit on the roof of Red Roebling, unmindful
of its dilapidation, the cockroach your roommate
stomped to guts the hour before, or the homemade
mouse traps you set in the main room. It’s been six weeks
since you deemed us official, five weeks
since Jessica took her last breath and one week
since Ashley took hers. I practice
my pranayama as June exhales her own
trepidation, the damp wind too weighted
to suggest an end to my premature sufferings.
I did not grow up particularly religious, though now
the thought of divine timing brings me comfort, you
their parting gift, an exchange of prospect for braving
privation—a poetry to all of this. We are too drunk
to care about the loose tiling that could render us
floor bound with an unfortunate mouse. If it weren’t for
the nauseating whiffs of Fat Sal’s Deli, this moment
would feel almost immaculate.
Our view of Ronald Reagan Medical Center is completely
unobstructed, its roof vis-à-vis ours as if in standoff. I look at it,
this acclaimed Goliath that once housed Nancy. From where
I am sitting, I can fit its distance between my thumb
and index finger when I cock my hand into a sideways L.
As a helicopter approaches, we feel our last shots of lemon Prestige
triangulate between our chests and touching heads. The chopper lands
like a savoir onto its mothership, and you ask me what I am thinking.
Maybe they’re transporting an organ I tell you. Maybe it’s a pair of lungs. Maybe
they would have been the perfect fit.
Laura Faith
is the author of the YA novel, “Amanda Phake: The First Phake ID”, as well as the poetry collection, “A Convergence, So to Speak”. Her work has appeared in Narrative Magazine and Eunoia Review. She received a BA in French and Francophone Studies from UCLA and an MA in teaching from UC Irvine. Laura teaches English, French, and creative writing to K-12 and college students. Follow her on Instagram and Facebook at @poems_by_laura