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
Kayla E.L. Ybarra
Packing And Unpacking Forever
Uprooted frequently, familiar was
the smell of cardboard and defrost,
cigarette ash in strewn-about coke cans,
papers, stapled wings, on the doors.
The hall slowly piles up and empties,
ferns wilting by the window of my college
apartment, a museum of my small life
stuffed into banker boxes again.
Move to the gated community of dreams,
a tiny quad of tiny people in tiny
homes nestled between crawl space and
yearning to make room for more.
Goose Song
“What punishments of God are not gifts?”
—Stephen Colbert
The copper wire stripped
in the dingy garage,
The geese that took shelter
behind the tall grass,
The candy rain pneumonia
we ingested as children,
sing of plaster, bruises, and glass.
The cicada shells scattered
at the roots of the willow,
The crochet baby blanket
brought places you’ve slept,
The things we lamented
but learned how to love,
cry for meaning, home, and regret.
Lavender
I went to gather flowers
between the veil of this world
and the next, when God peers
down from the heavens and
is so close to us.
I sat on the swinging bench,
freckled in the moonlight,
and thought of Qamarun
who illuminated my path
on the cold walk back home.
Only The All Knowing could hear
the crying in my throat.
I didn’t find sleep, kept up
by the chorus of rain that tried
to fill your absence.
Snapped 5 stems until quiet.
Their sweet scent carried me
while angels wept, busied with
their pens, watching me pull
stolen gifts up my sleeves.
I tried to retrace my steps
but they wouldn’t bring back
your sweet laughter on the phone.
I miss you so much though
the lavender hasn’t dried.
Pear Tree
The heavy fruit that fell
from the pear tree at Cherokee
Path was grainy and sweet
like my clock radio’s whispers
from the yellowed window
and reminded me of grandma’s
laughter in old photo albums.
I was always told I resembled
my grandmother. Marla,
the pearl hunter, the stern
traveler who never settled.
Catching her fruit where God willed.
I hid my pile of pears in
a bush fort and snuck away
to rifle through the dumpsters
and play in the street.
Marla and her mother lived
in Las Vegas where she would
flip back and forth between
Jeopardy and the Gospels
until they would both die.
Moe’s Garden
The best tomato I ever ate was from a garden I built with my grandpa, Bobber.
He lived next door to Moe’s Tavern, a bar where local fishermen
would thaw after long days of sitting on the ice.
One morning I was caught whittling in the garden
by a bar patron and was told to go down to grandpa’s shop instead.
The Big Mouth Billy Bass collected dust there in the basement.
Tackle-box memories collected there like night-crawlers.
Bobber grew too old to keep hopping on the riding lawn mower
with me on his lap for rounds of weeding.
We didn’t grow flowers but you can’t bring tomatoes to a funeral.
I read a verse about Zechariah who told us God remembers.
The garden of what used to be so many vines and fruits
growing from the ground where we’d unearth bait.
Now the garden is paved over with tar for a local bank.
They don’t know that a child used to run there barefoot in the rows.
Kayla E.L. Ybarra
is a humble poet who delicately weaves stories of loss, offering moments of introspective grief for readers to ponder upon. Kayla recently graduated from the University of California, Santa Cruz with a Bachelors in Feminist Studies. With a passion to contribute positively to human life, Kayla aspires to uplift others through her poetry and future endeavors. Through her words, she hopes to ignite empathy, fostering moments of reflection and meaningful connections.