Poetry Winter 2016 fiction all issues
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Cover Joel Filipe
Alexander McCoy
Questions to Ask a Mountain
& other poems
Alexandra Kamerling
Prairie
& other poems
Debbie Hall
She Walks Into Starbucks Carrying a 2 x 4
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Patience
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
Sheet and Exposed Feet
& other poems
Melissa Cantrell
Collision
& other poems
Martin Conte
Skin
& other poems
AJ Powell
The Road to Homer
& other poems
Paul W. Child
World Diverted
& other poems
Michael Eaton
Remembrances
& other poems
Lawrence Hayes
Walking the Earth
& other poems
Daniel Sinderson
Like a Bit of Harp and a Far Off Twinkle
& other poems
Sam Hersh
Las Trampas
& other poems
Margo Jodyne Dills
Babies and Young Lovers
& other poems
Nicole Anania
To the Dying Man's Daughter
& other poems
Lisa Zou
Under the Parlor
& other poems
Hazel Kight Witham
Hoofbeat Heartbeat
& other poems
Margaret Dawson
Daylily
& other poems
James Wolf
An Act of Kindness
& other poems
Jane A. Horvat
Psychedelic
& other poems
Bill Newby
Touring
& other poems
Jennifer Sclafani
Hindsight Twenty Twenty
& other poems
Margaret Dawson
I See the Future in Your Mouth
There in the X-ray—your five-year old skull
a premonition of itself in the grave.
Behind each milk tooth the grown ones loom,
Tombstones askew, vying to be first to break
the gum line and mark the lost babies with no remorse
for making crooked the clean straight rows
measured as the meter of nursery rhymes
that trilled across their white surface.
Pressing your tender-smooth cheeks
I try to feel the harbingers of adult-hood,
of the cutting ahead, some ghost braille
cells that spell your story, code I
cannot read. More solid than flesh they will lie
with you long after I stop sharing your pillow.
They will shape the words you form
your life with, language I only hope to understand.
Unkind reminders, lucky gatekeepers
of your breath. They will know you—
blood and bone, better than I—I who grew them in you while you grew in me—
they will guard your secrets, daughter, cradle to grave.
The Cert
My grandmother’s blue raincoat takes me by surprise
Here is her closet behind dry-cleaner’s plastic, the rip
In the pocket finally fixed. I remember her eyes
Finding me crouched behind the darkness of her perfumed dresses, my lip
Bit, eyes clenched (instantly invisible), broken beads ready to rain
From my clutched hands. But, innocent now, into the cuff I slip
My hand to find her—smooth nails, rings, the pillowy veins
She hated, wishing gloves still a must in ladies fashion. I tear
The clear sheath and look for missed stains
That might map the course we traveled—that root beer
Spill from lunch at Friendly’s is now just shadow.
I press my face to the wide lapel but don’t find her there
Either. Guiding my arms through the sleeves—too short—though
In the mirror I make her move again, feel her low
Voice in the warmth of the upturned collar,
In the pocket, a Cert, half-way to powder.
Daylily
I inspected the buds at night with my dad
to see which might bloom by morning.
Still I was always surprised by the red
or peach that burst forth from the heart
of the blossoms and enlivened the quiet
green bank. We made sure to get a picture;
they were only there for the day, but the picture
would last much longer. You think of becoming a dad
when I come home today as we sit in the quiet
kitchen smiling. You make toast in the morning,
ask how I feel, say you love me with all of your heart.
I laugh at your doting and ask for the red
raspberry jam, but you say there’s no red
only black. I look at my belly, try to picture
how it will pop out and how the little heart
beat will get strong. I’ve been watching, like my dad,
for the daylilies, but it’s early yet, only May this morning.
The green swords protect the roots, but the top’s pursed lips are quiet.
I leave the radio off and enjoy the quiet
drive to work. The coats of the thoroughbreds
steam; the rain has hushed the morning.
At lunch I go to the library and leaf through picture
books, ones I had as a child. A young dad
guides the scissors as his daughter cuts a heart
from pink paper. It’s an I Love You Heart,
she beams to her father, forgetting the rule about quiet.
He puts a finger to his lips, and I see you as a dad.
In the bathroom I find a bright red
has filled the bowl. At the doctor’s they scan another picture,
but there is no longer shows the pulse of the first morning.
The blood comes heavy in the night, and in morning
you’re still awake by my side. I lay my head on your heart,
am soothed by its beat. I think of the small paper picture
and the glowing shape that was its center. I stay quiet,
hold my hand to my belly and wait. We watch the red
blossom on the sheet; Someday, you’ll be a great dad.
I remember the morning you thought you’d be a dad,
a picture of the future as clear as the coming red
or peach daylilies, before the heart went quiet.
Margaret Dawson
teaches English in New York City. She lives there with her husband and two children. She studied literature and poetry at Columbia University and Middlebury College. When she is not teaching, grading, or shuttling the little ones about, she is working on a collection of poetry about the big meaning in the little moments.