Poetry Winter 2015 fiction all issues
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Cover Peter Rawlings
J. H Yun
Yesenia
& other poems
Colby Hansen
Killing Jar #37
& other poems
Melissa Bond
Freud's Asparagus
& other poems
Jane Schulman
When Krupa Played Those Drums
& other poems
Susan F. Glassmeyer
First Moon of a Blue Moon Month
& other poems
Melissa Tyndall
Haptics
& other poems
Micah Chatterton
Medicine
& other poems
Emily Graf
Toolbox
& other poems
Kate Magill
LV Winter, 2015
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Meeting Mrs. Ping
& other poems
Richard Parisio
Brown Creeper
& other poems
Jennifer Leigh Stevenson
Circe in Business
& other poems
Laurel Eshelman
Tuckpointing
& other poems
Barry W. North
Molotov Cocktail of the Deep South
& other poems
Charles C. Childers
Privilege
& other poems
Ricky Ray
A Way to Work
& other poems
Cassandra Sanborn
Revelation
& other poems
Linda Sonia Miller
Full Circle
& other poems
J. Lee Strickland
Anna's Plague
& other poems
Erin Dorso
In the Kitchen
& other poems
Holly Lyn Walrath
Behind the Glass
& other poems
Jeff Lewis
Charles Ives, A Connecticut Yankee
& other poems
Karen Kraco
Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill
& other poems
Rafael Miguel Montes
Casket
& other poems
Melissa Tyndall
For Our Children, Not Yet Born,
I Preserve the Images of Animals
They are nearly gone: the black-footed ferret,
gloved and bandit-masked, last leopards
fading into Russia’s northern forests. You’ll never
see a nighthawk’s forked plumes and gaping mouth,
watch the Dusky Darter swim Tennessee creek beds,
hear the jumping meadow mouse chirp or its tail
drum against the earth. One night, the woods will empty,
the howl of the red wolf forgotten like a sudden storm—
a strong wind that wails briefly, then dies
in the dark. Here once were 600-pound cats,
fanged and orange as cinders,
and foxes—yes, Fox, your last name—
with wide noses, rufous-colored ears,
and long, black-tipped tails. I hold
them here, until you arrive.
Postcards from the Amer River
A trip to Alaska prompted the first—
backed with near-blue landscapes,
silver-tipped ice whorls, concentric shells.
Last summer, your script spilled past
lined margins, threatened the spiny
bones of sea animals, birds in watercolor,
beachfront sunsets brushed in gold,
lavender and dusty pinks, trapped
the way icebergs entomb volcanic
fragments, carry it for years, before
the black rock ripples, peeling back snow,
upheaving it into crags along the water
the local paper described as God-sized
snowmen melting. At Christmas,
your letters come thrust against Dutch
postmarks. You write of beer and spiced
black teas ripe with honey and cinnamon
and bayberries; how climate or distance
can reframe a place, remove doglocks,
allow migration. Words rise in waves
like relief-maps, from this new country,
set us adrift in reverse, cotton us to memory.
At the first hint of spring, the grass will green
again, grow back into itself, shake off the frost
and black smut whips. In Tennessee,
green foxtails, wild and weedy,
will shatter and scatter their seeds,
and I’ll feel the need to write to
you, but there’s nothing I want to say.
Haptics
Scientists say we never truly touch—
despite any sensation we might feel,
our electrons begin to push away
the moment we move toward each other.
This is the unquestionable nature
of our universe and its elements,
and we’re no more than a collection of
atoms encased by an invisible
force field that allows us to overlap
temporarily, but repels those who
venture too close. It absorbs the shock of
others, protects us from risk. Science claims
contact is just an illusion caused when
our energies brush against each other.
They argue touch is no more existent
than a memory of you—how blue your
eyes look in the dark, the way your long,
dark hair falls into your face when you lean
over the neck of my guitar. No more real than
morning after bruises, evidence of teeth
on my breasts, hands on my throat—than
the recollection of the first time we met.
You cross the room, talk about the summer
storm that rages for hours. You smile. Then,
a low rumble of thunder, a hot vein
of lightning, the rain like a high hat beat
just on the other side of the window.
Film Studies
Ever the Southern gentleman
in your indie film,
you ask before kissing her
on the front porch.
I wonder, if we kissed,
if you’d do it this way
off-screen. Later, you lift
her onto the sink of a hotel
bathroom, your hands running up
her thighs and under her skirt.
I imagine myself in her place—
countertop to pantyhose off,
in one of two double beds, wonder
if your face would look as it did
when you said you loved her.
But the first time you lean in
is during a lull in conversation
on the deck of an East Nashville
bar, the string of lights twinkling,
the fans humming, spinning
like a film reel. I find myself wishing,
not for the crescendo of night sounds,
or our flash forward, but for a loop
of this instant, for the infinite
playback—to preserve the still
moment no movie can capture.
Aubade
After the separation, the first man
to sleep in my bed does just that—sleeps,
fills the vacant side. His long, blonde hair, even
longer than mine, spills across the pillow,
fine as cornsilk strands. Our bodies mirror
each other, hearts flailing against our ribs.
During the night, he pulls my arm over
his torso, grips my thigh to draw my leg
between his, presses my front to his back.
When he shifts, a tribal tattoo licks past
the collar of his white T-shirt and up
his neck. I know the ink runs the other
way, too, almost dips into his waistband,
and it conjures up the memory of him
peeling a shirt over his broad shoulders—
how, after a party, he pushed me down
gently, pinned me back-flat on the carpet.
How he laid on top of me, grew harder
when we kissed, and he fisted the fabric
of my shorts when those kisses dipped
under my shirt, his hair grazing my flesh—
but we stop ourselves.
He wants to pursue
friendship only, he claims, but that’s undone
each time our eyes meet across the bartop
and he refuses to look away, nights
we lean against each other on the couch,
our fingers interlaced. Is this what friends
do? He walks the apartment and cleans up
bottles, empty glasses, locks the front door,
turns off any forgotten lights. I lift
up the corner of my blanket for him,
an invitation he accepts
when he climbs in without a word.
Melissa Tyndall
is a writer, bibliophile, caffeine addict, professor, and Supernatural fangirl. She holds a Bachelor of Science in English, a Master of Arts in Corporate Communication, and Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. Her poems and award-winning articles have appeared in Number One, Prism international, Red Mud Review, Words + Images, and various newspapers. Her work is forthcoming in an essay collection examining The CW television series Supernatural. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee.