Poetry Winter 2014 fiction all issues
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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
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
Step slowly, carefully,
until you feel the fog between the trees.
Hear the heartbeat of air.
Let the ground open beneath you
and grant you forever to walk the first step.
Freedom is brief: watch smoke disappear.
Even with the best of wines
the second sip drowns the first.
Lacking An Easel
The compulsion to capture two children
geysering up and down on a seesaw—
balancing precariously on the air—overwhelms me.
If only I were an artist able to quick-sketch the silos
wobbling behind them
or draw the wheat field shrinking to stubble
beneath their feet.
Or paint the color of their squeals.
The boy reaches for a rooftop,
straddling the wood shed
with red and blue shouts.
The girl lifts bare legs—
shrieking purple cries
at the puddle drawing closer.
Two children divide the light—
each rising and falling with exultant yelps
that swoop like swallows into the hay loft.
But the exuberance of such a vision
can never be painted but only kissed.
And I’d rather savor it,
keeping my hands free to catch them
should one of them fall.
Leaves Beyond Glass
For Peter Kaplan (1957-1977)
Father: open the windows before the trees go bare,
before the lawn is raked clean,
and one misstep buries me in mud.
Bring back the green leaves surrounding my boyhood.
Let me trot beside you,
two steps to your one.
My hand grips your finger,
as we trundle down streets,
pulling a wagon full of brothers.
I feel your chin when you bend down
to sort the bottle caps from the coins
I pull from my pockets.
Shining back from counter glass,
your eyes meet mine
above the pyramid of ice cream numbing my tongue.
Unable to look away, I’m lost in your reflection.
Confined by illness, I lay quarantined in your tattered robe,
gazing out while you frosted cartoons
to the outer side of my bedroom window.
You stood in the cold, arching your eye brows—miming laughter—
meant to carry me past all confinements.
Hearing you whistle around corners,
I came running.
I know you can’t remove this sickness.
But lift me once more toward the ceiling
that appeared only an arm’s length away
before I fall back—
entombed in the silence of this stale room.
Spring
That well-spent hag was hardly awake
before—with a toss of her hair—
she changed beds.
Stealing the moon’s protrusion,
she padded out her hips.
She filled out her flat bosom with green buds.
Crossing over the swollen creek, she trampled the lilies.
She squeezed blossoms over her body,
feigning a bath with perfume.
A breeze dried her clean.
Strapping on spiked heels,
she gave the turf its course.
Seed spilled everywhere.
But you’ve gotta hand it to her—
the old bitch.
Look at those meadows rise!
Short Orders
It’s 2 a.m.
I stumble into a diner.
Bubbly-mouthed coffee pots attempt
to steam open the tight-lipped night.
I find an empty booth.
I’m not talking.
A waitress appears, hovering like an angel.
She turns her face away,
allowing me to stare at the back of her legs.
I want to thank her.
I signal for her pencil. She hands it to me.
I trace our lives on a napkin.
“Look, buddy. You’ll need more than astrological signs
to get me into bed.”
I open my jacket.
“Who do ya think you are? Pull down your shirt.
I’ve seen better tattoos on a dog’s ass.”
The food counter bell clangs.
“I’ll be back when you’re ready ta order.”
I lick salt from the back of my hand.
“Hey! You givin’ da girl trouble?”
I look up. The cook stands over me.
“Yeah. You. Don’t act dumb. You can talk.
Now give her back her pencil. She’s got work to do.”
I hand it over, surrendering my tongue.
A drunken man and woman in rumpled wedding clothes
flop down in the next booth.
“Would you believe,” the bride slurs, “I was going to be a nun?”
She looks around to see if anyone else is listening.
“Here’s your eggs and Johnny cakes.”
The cook bangs down my plate.
“Ya got syrup and whatever else ya need on da rack.
So no more lip outta youse.”
The bride winks at me.
“Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. “You’d better be careful.
Cupid might be lurkin’ closer than you think.
Look: I’ve still got my garter on.”
She bares her thigh and giggles.
“Whata ya say? Wanna try for it?”
The groom weaves as he wags a finger at me.
I shrug my shoulders and turn away.
It almost seems the coffee darkens
the more I add cream to it.
Franklin Zawacki 
writes in San Francisco, CA.