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
Gilaine Fiezmont
Men Are Filled with Grief
To Tom and Ron
Berkeley coffee beckoned
us together father-figure and
mentee sharing that pulse
of pain down the right leg.
Between bites I conjured
the memory, the anguish
when unrelenting suffering
locked you into a curtained room
to wait out
the end.
And he says:
Men are filled with grief
And they must walk through it.
For ten months I
gritted my teeth each morning
walked the one block
the fates still granted me.
For ten months I
tossed for escape each night
sought the comfort of
curling sideways
first right,
then left.
Men must walk through grief.
And the next moment grief
cut off his voice.
Just like that recalled embodied prison
the pain shooting down, weaving
itself into the fabric of your life
encasing me into upper body
freedom, the silence stretching
into dread of forever.
Grief lengthened wordlessly into
a disembodied touch.
I wanted to hug you.
At least extend my hand
for one caress
in solidarity.
Saltspring Two
I always make the best of things, you say,
measuring mayonnaise for salad night,
with fresh eggs and fresh parsley we
make magic out of summer’s bounty.
I sit in the tall chair in the corner
your surface-sister I
have your eyes
one arm on the bar, one hand on my knee
I do nothing
but watch.
You tell me you’re mom here, make sure
the guests tuck in a good breakfast.
Your mouth’s already pressed
together, your arms tire daily dough into bread.
I’m a Samurai in a Mustang doing
four hundred miles a day.
I know Valhalla will fall to the giants.
My L.A. is only a training ground.
You couldn’t take it, you say,
walking close to the lights to spot trouble,
abandoning the sidewalk for lit traffic
avoiding dark corners breathing gun-fire.
Outside my car purrs awake at a warning,
The headlights reach into our kitchen,
they drain our faces, turn us into black-and-whites,
Alert my sword-mind to Columbian forest shadows.
We blend potatoes into vinaigrette
I hold the bowl, you scoop the onions,
I think about the two years you taught
water safety
when spring melts open the Yukon shores,
and your summer’s respite on Saltspring Island.
You know warriors are lost to peace,
yet you draw me into this other life
hand me bread and the gift of your welcome.
Water on the heart
To Billy
In the hospital you missed foamy lather,
the weight of wet hair curling in your hands.
Under my towel I spot the red mark
where lasers stung away brown skin.
But you display your other scar
between your ribs, witness
to your heart trouble:
It is the pump and not the blood,
you tell us with a gesture,
raised shirt like a white flag.
Water on the heart,
pressing in on that limited organ,
your human body shrinking slowly,
pressing in on our squeezed soul.
Your voice splashes cheer at your survival,
I coo along for good measure.
When I leave,
determined not to let my heart
give out
I kiss you good bye.
In Memoriam / Day of the Dead
To Anne, 1956 – 1994
Once imminent
death gave you
the bluest eyes,
a gaze so clear
it cut
to another horizon.
¡Espantosa!
The gaze of a soul
ready to begin our next journey.
Haunting!
To look at a soul bared
of the routines of daily life.
Shall I wrestle with you now?
Shall I light a candle
on All Soul’s
to keep you close?
No, I shall cherish this haunting.
I shall seek it out
when forgetting begins
to swallow me.
Yes, I cherish this haunting.
I turn to San Gabriel’s Peak
you spent so much time in its shadow
to hear you dancing
across
the brown ridges
flowing into the sky
northeast of our city of angels.
Gilaine Fiezmont
works as a teacher and researcher, writes speculative fiction, and loves it when she is struck by inspiration for a poem. She reads and listens to stories and poems from many lands and across many genres, occasionally in her native French or later Spanish. She is currently working on poetryambassadors.org to celebrate and promote poetic explorations, and continuing her Alnos Chronicles online and via ebooks.