Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Debbra Palmer
Bake Sale
& other poems
Ann V. DeVilbiss
Far Away, Like a Mirror
& other poems
Michael Fleming
On the Bus
& other poems
Harold Schumacher
Dying To Say It
& other poems
Heather Erin Herbert
Georgia’s Advent
& other poems
Sharron Singleton
Sonnet for Small Rip-Rap
& other poems
Bryce Emley
College Beer
& other poems
Harry Bauld
On a Napkin
& other poems
George Mathon
Do You See Me Waving?
& other poems
Mariana Weisler
Soft Soap and Wishful Thinking
& other poems
Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
& other poems
Jill Murphy
Migration
& other poems
Cassandra Sanborn
Remnants
& other poems
Kendall Grant
Winter Love Note
& other poems
Donna French McArdle
White Blossoms at Night
& other poems
Tom Freeman
On Foot, Joliet, Illinois
& other poems
George Longenecker
Nest
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems
Rebecca Irene
Woodpecker
& other poems
Savannah Grant
And Not As Shame
& other poems
Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Titian Left No Paper Trail
& other poems
Martin Conte
We’re Not There
& other poems
A. Sgroi
Sore Soles
& other poems
Miguel Coronado
Body-Poem
& other poems
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
& other poems
Rachel A. Girty
Collapse
& other poems
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems
Margie Curcio
Gravity
& other poems
Stephanie L. Harper
Painted Chickens
& other poems
Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
& other poems
Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
& other poems
Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
& other poems
Tania Brown
On Weeknights
& other poems
James Ph. Kotsybar
Unmeasured
& other poems
Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
the ants in the carpet have climbed
onto her head and onto the jars of strawberry preserves
green beans she’d snapped on the back porch
have spilt into the sink from water still filling the bowl
the oven burns doughnuts she was making from buttermilk biscuits
down to six rings of charred bread
the boys are with their granddad at Bull Lake taking
turns holding the golf ball he cut out from a snake’s belly
the snake must have thought it had swallowed an egg
the smoke needs more time to fill the house
Stray
I wrap live caterpillars
in corn husks
to feed them to the cows
and follow Pa
to the chicken coop
to watch his hands get pecked
while retrieving eggs
but hide in the truck
when he’s outside
combing underneath the house
with a rake and towel
for a litter of strays
to drown
in the pasture
in the tub
where I was baptized
Below
Underneath each hyacinth is a cat
She digs the graves on her own
The nursery will not charge her for the bulbs
Two were pronounced dead in the same week
Plant two and plant three
A fifth plant will show this spring
She doesn’t like children much or her eldest sister
She remembers her Mother helping them bury
a squirrel that bit her when
she was only five, her sister nine
It was sick and not safe to pet
They all agreed to forgive the rodent
after returning from the emergency room
Together, the three of them sprinkled
the animal with rosemary, thyme, and lavender
then returned it to the earth
“That wasn’t so bad,” she says,
staring into her garden, eating a can
of pork and beans from a crystal flue
Brother
hear.
those feet over the road
arched and bent the snap of thimble muscle
lifts you like a squall of ink
that
great old mouth clicks
wet with ancient hunger and parable
charged with rain and famine
don’t caw at my share, brother
you were the last silhouette off the bough
for this downed meal
every bite we
shake with red tinsel between our beaks you
still keep one eye on me
dark, mannequin, inlaid like bad prayer
eat.
The Tomatoes Are Good This Year
we sit like people sit
pray like people in prayer
even talk like people talk
there is new death here we
pass the turkey the dressing
the pie in the second week of october
tell stories swap photos like
factory canners when it’s not
our turn we sharpen new exits
does anyone need anything while
i’m up notice the carpet is still green
after all these years wonder
if that mirror was always at
the end of the hallway the plate
of tomatoes reaches him the him
that will be dead by the real thanksgiving
the tomatoes he grew himself he
removes a slice the first slice removed
from the plate takes a bite a giant
little outburst slips right out he doesn’t
cry long or share the future he catches
it quickly says sorry folks the tomatoes
are just that good
he passes the plate to his
left this time around we all
take one we agree
the tomatoes are good
Tracy Pitts
is a writer / filmmaker living in Portland, OR.