Poetry Winter 2017 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Cover Thought-Forms
Laura Apol
On My Fiftieth Birthday I Return
& other poems
Jihyun Yun
Aubade
& other poems
Jamie Ross
Red Jetta
& other poems
Sarah Blanchard
Carolina Clay
& other poems
lauren a. boisvert
Save a Seat for Me in the Void
& other poems
Faith Shearin
A Pirate at Midlife
& other poems
Helen Yeoman-Shaw
Calling Long Distance
& other poems
Sarah B. Sullivan
Iris
& other poems
Timothy Walsh
Metro Messenger
& other poems
Gabriel Spera
Scratch
& other poems
Zoë Harrison
Pattee Creek
& other poems
AJ Powell
Blanket
& other poems
Alexa Poteet
The Man Who Got off the Train Between Madrid and Valencia
& other poems
Marcie McGuire
Still Birth
& other poems
Kim Drew Wright
Elephants Standing
& other poems
Michael Jenkins
The Garden Next Door
& other poems
Nicky Nicholson-Klingerman
Costume
& other poems
Doni Faber
Man Moth
& other poems
M. Underwood
In Other Words
& other poems
Carson Pynes
Diet Coke
& other poems
Bucky Ignatius
Something Old, . . .
& other poems
Violet Mitchell
Deleting Emails the Week After Kevin Died
& other poems
Sam Collier
Nocturne in an Empty Sea
& other poems
Meryl Natchez
Equivocal Activist
& other poems
William Godbey
A Corn Field in Los Angeles
& other poems
Zoë Harrison
Pattee Creek
A week after you died, a fox, hungry white
laid flat in knapweed’s purple flowers his ears
strained towards the criss crossed wires you’d strung
with rattlesnake hides, brass washers.
Beyond the mesh
were the chickens and below the chickens
rust, late watermelon rinds,
straw strangled with feathers.
Will I rot, my body tucked under sanded clay
my bones another stone beneath the yard’s fruit tree
fallen apple war drums
against my ribs?
As he crept across nude roots
the flock’s clucks were
low warning
their plumage raising like parasols.
The cerulean shoelace you hung
danced from the wooden coop
as paws scraped the soil.
When the wire gave there was nowhere to flee,
beaks twittered and cracked like June bug wings,
their feathered heads limp.
Inside the kitchen walls were ledger, the corners sellotaped
seams, curved like origami balloons. Your shotgun was hung
in the wardrobe, you’d never shown me how to shoot.
Zoë Harrison
, a twenty-year-old Montanan who has only seen a Broad-leaved forest once and found it quite too short. Though she would go back in a second if it meant escaping the gray slush of a February rain.