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
Noreen Graf
Sister Mary
Sister Mary brushes snow strands
from her mother’s frozen face.
A single, silvery thread. Burrows.
Into the winter-worn crevasse.
It roots below her icy-blue skin.
Turns to twine, then twists to rope.
Sister Mary prays and pulls. Tugs.
And pries and yanks.
Her mother’s memories tumble.
Clinging. Like cat claws.
To a concocted life. Spewing.
Over. A bubbling witch’s brew.
Fallen, like apples. The memories
plunk. And Sister Mary flees.
A single, silky, silver strand. Stuck.
Beneath her shoe.
The old woman propped in bed.
Crooked. Like a raggedy doll.
Picks at her memories. Cocooned.
Stirring in her hands.
Some she flings to the floor.
Some she nibbles and spits. Tired.
She kicks them from her bed
like so many toys.
To make room, at last, for sleep.
In Attendance
The oxygen machine keeps the rhythm in the room.
Plunk, then a long hiss, regular as a tocking clock.
Her mouth gasps for air below caged eyes.
We sit. Circled around her and count time
between breaths. Tapping thumbs
to fingers. Like we were kids again.
One-two-three-four. Another breath.
We begin the count again.
One of us is swallowing sniffles.
I don’t know who. Not me.
Cell phones silenced, we whisper
in this sacrosanct place. That used to be
our living room. A dying room.
I can’t hear her words across the bed
Over the plunk and hiss.
I think my hearing is going bad.
Did she say something?
I stick my ear to her face, and she recoils.
I’m sorry, I say, hoping to hear her whispered reply.
The plunk and hiss intrude.
Her throat rattles, lungs wheeze and weep.
Plunk. And she forever stops trying.
Hiss. To say what she has already said
and forgotten. And doesn’t need to say
because we already know.
Plunk and hiss. Something of her is gurgling.
She fights for air and drowns
in every breath. Plunk and hiss.
She exhales. We count on our fingers
like children to five.
She gasps. We startle, and count,
and wait. Plunk and hiss. Plunk
and hiss. She gasps again.
We count and wait. Hold
our breath. Plunk and
hiss, plunk and hiss.
Plunk. Her eyes and mouth freeze.
Open. To let her soul escape.
Hiss. One of us unplugs
the machine.
I don’t know who. Not me.
We breathe in
the still air.
Until
we break. Even me.
What I Took
I didn’t take her mink,
I took the dollies that don’t match
A rosary I don’t pray.
I didn’t want her worn-out mink
I’m keeping her diamond ring
I took the rosary I don’t pray
Her leather gloves too small.
I’m keeping her diamond ring for me.
Two dishes, roses red.
I grabbed her leather gloves too small.
Her quilt is packed away.
I took two tiny dishes, painted roses red.
A flowered plate with gilded gold
A rosary I don’t pray.
I took her amber wedding pic.
Before I turned away.
The Crickets’ Song
I listen to the crickets’ trill.
Thinking there is nothing else.
Joined in concert by skittering
leaves, and a breeze that clatters
my chimes.
I attend to the contour
of the Mango tree, against the
clouded sky. The rustling wind,
washing my face. In a rhythmic
cold embrace.
The dog sneezes, then yaps
at some distant howl. A chorus
of barking commences. Echoes.
Crescendos. Then halts, in time
for the Crickets’ rumpus refrain.
I would have called you tonight
to cackle with me. Added laughter
the this raucous. I listen instead
to the trebled call. A doleful
crickets’ cadence.
Noreen Graf
was a finalist in the James Jones First Book Contest, and runner up in the Chester B Himes Short Fiction Prize. Her short fiction and graphic literature has appeared in The Ocotillo Review, Sixfold, Dirty Chai and Political Irony. She is currently an MFA student in the Creative Writing program at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley.