Poetry Summer 2023 fiction all issues
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Cover
Joel Filipe
Kristina Cecka
Rabble
& other poems
Gillian Freebody
The Uncivil War of Love
& other poems
LuAnn Keener-Mikenas
Skunks at Twilight
& other poems
Alyssa Sego
Passage
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
Forest of One
& other poems
Brent M. Foster
Ode to Darwin
& other poems
Jack Giaour
trans man is feeling blue
& other poems
Alan Gann
how strange
& other poems
Richard Baldo
The Privilege
& other poems
Michael Fleming
In
& other poems
Holly York
As it turned out, there was no bomb on board
& other poems
Celeste Briefs
Late Poppies
& other poems
Kayla E.L. Ybarra
Goose Song
& other poems
S.E. Ingraham
Leaving to Arrive
& other poems
Rachel Robb
Molting Scarlet Tanager
& other poems
Bruce Marsland
Sauna by a Finnish lake at Midsummer
& other poems
Ellen Romano
Seven Sisters
& other poems
Greg Hart
False Coordinates
& other poems
Greg Tuleja
Shanksville
& other poems
Corinne Walsh
Southern Charm
& other poems
S.E. Ingraham
I Get Ready To Sell the Family Home
I find barnacles on the bottom of our old sailboat
upturned tortoise-style in the backyard.
They are brittle as a gang of great-grandmothers,
and scrape off with my bare hands.
I fire them like I used to throw snowballs over the peak
of our bungalow roof, now burnished copper,
drenched by sunlight soon departing the day.
The yard becomes a blur once the sun deserts the sky.
Until my eyes adjust to dusk’s bathing every blessed thing,
I see my mother crumpled beneath the old elm, her skin
the ashen color it had become when they cut her down.
Even blinking rapidly will not dispel that flinty image.
And tears long thought dried sit bitter on my tongue.
It’s hard not to visualize the men swaddling her
like a mummy. No, no—more like something
cocooned—before finally taking her away.
your leaving scars me still
(after rob mclennan’s the girl from abbotsford)
two years one month four days
i waken, my hand on your pillow
still lonely for your warmth.
your cat curls at my feet
but is still not my cat does not
purr—ever—awaits your return.
i continue to lose weight.
food does not interest me
nothing does really—
i am holding your taste
like a verb on my tongue
afraid to swallow your tense.
i wonder how long it takes
for wounds to fully heal
and if scars ever fade.
perhaps they are all
that keep me here, remind
me of you, that i was loved.
These Are Your Hands
Here, where the babe lay, stillness
now. These are your hands holding
my hands, both so empty even as
we try to catch at life,
our lives, whatever we imagine is left.
There on the steps is our dog, uneasy
in his stance as if suspecting the sea
change in us. He sleeps with one ear cocked,
one eye slitted open to our strained
tension-filled space.
Our television, like some artifact, remains
silent. Closed off, as are we, gathering
dust in a living room that mocks us
almost as much as the nursery and the
family room are wont to do.
The names of objects have never meant
much until now when cruel irony seems
to rebuke at every turn. You are careful
not to cradle my womb, as am I, that
empty vessel where Ely last lay.
Lay in a perfect breathless slumber
that will remain forever flawless,
however tragic. Determined, we strive
to be stoic. Don’t you think our Calvinist
parents will be so proud?
On the Cusp of Recall
“The half-life of love is forever.”
—Junot Diaz, This Is How You Lose Her
The night you put me on notice was a hot
August one, the day before your eldest son’s
5th birthday—do you remember this as
clearly, as do I?
Whenever August nights are hot and sticky
as scones with butter and jam, and the skies
grow so black they have glimmers of seaweed—
green running through them—the colour that
threatens storms that can portend tornadoes—
I remember that night and can hear you screaming.
Odd that, as all your threats and final words
were in writing—you never spoke, never shouted,
nor screamed—all of that is me imagining your voice
from other times, times I had forgotten entirely
until now.
It wasn’t as if your sister, you, and I didn’t have
some crazy fights—especially when you two were
growing up—and they got wicked loud—
But we always made up and came together—especially
you and your sister, and you and your Dad.
It was you who couldn’t stand for anyone to be mad.
And you, who would be the first to apologize and make up.
That’s why this prolonged silence, especially without
any explanation, and no hope of reconciliation (your words)
is so bewildering and hurtful.
Another Christmas looms, and of course,
I find myself thinking of you, my love, and your boys
—our grandsons.
I can’t help wondering, as I often do, what you told
them about our abrupt absence from their lives?
We, who love them fiercely and saw them often
were suddenly just not there—heartbreaking for us,
confusing for them.
I was stopped at a green light the other day, waiting
for a funeral procession to pass
And found myself thinking that I was glad we still observe
this courtesy.
The police tasked with blocking the intersections so
the cortege could stay together, stood outside their cars,
and removed their hats in a sign of respect.
It occurred to me that perhaps you’ve told your boys
we’re dead, so that’s why they don’t see us anymore.
Or maybe they were content with hearing we’ve moved away?
We haven’t, but it would likely do as an excuse.
I thought after enough time passed, I might not still feel a
physical pain when I think about this estrangement.
I was wrong.
When you first kicked us out of your lives—I remember
it felt like half my family was ripped away as surely as if
they’d been in a car accident.
I didn’t ever express this feeling because it seemed outrageous.
—I knew you and your kids (and your husband, who I’ve grown to
distrust, as I believe he’s a large part of this) still breathed.
Treating my loss as if you were dead seemed over the top.
As time wears on and nothing changes—in fact, any
overtures I make to try and reach you are so firmly rebutted,
(including legally, as it turns out), I begin to feel ill—both
physically and emotionally—my mental health starts to
deteriorate also, as my anger grows.
You know, one of the things that triggers my depressions
is a fear of abandonment (long stories, but you do know them)
I wonder if whatever it is you think we have done warrants our
being cut out of your life forever.
Does it ever occur to you that excising us from your lives
might also send me spiralling into a deep depression?
It’s not like you weren’t aware of this possibility—it happened
more than once when you were growing up.
Five years on, and still no word from you. Half a decade.
It hits me, if we bump into the boys somewhere,
we won’t know them nor they us.
I worry all the time about how they are, how you are.
Should I send the police to do a wellness check on you?
Or am I just fooling myself? Trying to believe that you must be ill
or surely you would have been in touch by now—
your father and I are getting old. Do you realize that?
We’ll be dead, and there will be no resolving this.
Is that going to be okay with you? I don’t believe it. I don’t.
The wind has picked up, and there’s a blizzard
blowing outside the window.
Visibility is nil which suits me as I write
about our situation—as always,
I can’t see clearly about any of it—
still, I wish only the best for you. Truly.
Leaving to Arrive
She gasses the old mauve Buick at the last self-serve
on the way out of town, smacks at droning but harmless
bugs landing on the stalk of her smooth white neck
and keeps shifting; stands with one dirty barefoot
covering the other, then switches.
She watches the numbers flip over on the gas pump,
notes the ping announcing every gallon added, and
jerks the nozzle out before it’s finished.
A faint dribble of fuel scents the air as the excess
runs down the side of the car.
Bill paid, she sashays back to the car, refreshes,
Sweetheart Pink lips in her rearview,
puts it in first and peels into the night,
the dust chasing her out to the two-lane
the only evidence she was ever there.
S.E.Ingraham
lives in Edmonton, Alberta, where she writes and reads in equal measure. She has been published with Poets for Change, Sixfold, ARTA, Shot Glass, Red Fez, winningwriters, and Freefall, among others. One of her greatest joys is volunteering as a CTA for ModPo, a MOOC at the University of Pennsylvania, each September, where she learns as much or more than she gives back.