Poetry Winter 2018 fiction all issues
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Cover Elena Koycheva
Bryce Emley
Asking Father What’s at the End
& other poems
AJ Powell
Butterfly-minded
& other poems
Faith Shearin
Biology
& other poems
Claire Van Winkle
Admitting
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Summer Cycles
& other poems
Nooshin Ghanbari
Vincent
& other poems
Meli Broderick Eaton
The Afterlives of Leaves
& other poems
Jeddie Sophronius
Refugees
& other poems
Paula Bonnell
In Winter, By Rail
& other poems
Addison Van Auken Waters
Girls
& other poems
Daniel Sinderson
Hallelujah
& other poems
Andrew Allport
All Nature Will Fable
& other poems
Marte Stuart
What an Insult Time Is
& other poems
Matthew Parsons
My Father as an Inuit Hunter
& other poems
Emily Bauer
Gently, Gently
& other poems
Bruce Marsland
A once lovelorn bard’s final journey
& other poems
Beatrix Bondor
Night Makers
& other poems
Isabella Skovira
Lawless Conservation
& other poems
Juan Pablo González
Colombia, 1928
& other poems
Molly Pines
The Pillbug
& other poems
Jamie Marie
On the Lake
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
If You Show Me Yours
& other poems
Bill Newby
Tuesdays at The Seagate's Atlantic Grille
& other poems
Elder Gideon
Male Initiation Rites
& other poems
Joel Holland
Dear Gi-Gi
& other poems
Martha R. Jones
How Lewis Carroll Met Edgar Allan Poe
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Emptied of Heart
“as I get older, I feel emptier”—jbk
You sit, vacant eyes an island
on your inner landscape, emptied
for lack of desire for more. Emptied
of loves lost and leaving you
lonely and afraid. Emptied
of life, left only with pain. Emptied
of will unlike those valiant years
of hair loss, chemo. Emptied, too,
of relentless worry over holding
a job, putting bread on a table you sit at alone
without appetite. Emptied of things
as we consult and consign, pack up
on the eve of change. All that remains
is bleak dark, the vast fear
of fading away
empty.
For My Sister
All night your heart treads
the rough ground of uncertainties,
rumbling over their spiky terrain
like a hamster striking the spokes of his wheel
racing as if to outdistance pain.
Or outsmart the doubts strewn ahead
with careless abandon. You
could choose to pause and reflect.
Assess the landscape before you.
Select your steps intent
on placing your feet on smooth ground
to assure balance. Sense
the solid nurture of knowing
you are whole. The rough ground
but a transient truth. Uncertainty
the true texture of a lived life.
Fear of Falling
She fears falling in the shower
so I go first, set the water to welcome
then extend my steady arms for her
to grasp. Reassured, she steps
leaning against the wall, the bar,
my naked chest as she seeks support
that speaks safety. Slowly I seat her,
leg bracing the stool as I lower her down.
Water courses past her shoulders
blessing her trust, our bond.
I hand her soap and washcloth, hold
the spray above her head.
Unbidden, her hands unfold the motions
of life-long ritual. Side by side, we sisters
slake a thirst for simpler time shared
if not recalled—immersed
in laughter, leaning one
into the other, trust unspoken.
And now, her hair washed
and rinsed over and over
’til it squeaks as she likes,
I towel her dry in the warmth of the stall
as we plot our exit, her fear of falling returned
full force. I stand strong, lift
support her weight on me only
to discover her legs no longer hold.
She reaches arms around my neck
as I step slowly back, clutching her
withered body to mine, our shuffled tango
an uneven course the few feet to bed.
For the last time, I hold her close
before she falls away.
Sunset
dark gray puffs of cloud
interspersed with neon pink
backlit context of the day’s
layered leave-taking, light
and gray intermingled at the end
of a too-short visit with a life too-long
lived in the gray of loss—appetite
or energy for life— the same
day in and out, no hot pink zip
or even the pretext of joy
just the occasional shimmer
of a few days together
yesterday and tomorrow
a soft glow fading quickly away
like the sunset over the tarmac
anticipating an on-time departure
Summer Cycles
I. Last night, I brought the first
red daylily of summer inside.
It had been bent, the quiet way
things happen, unnoticed.
By this morning it had wilted,
its short life shed into a single tear
shaped blood red pool.
II. How sweet my sister’s seaside visit
last summer—her first
wheeling her on canary yellow wings
to float on waves. We never got
that far, it being low tide.
But we laughed a good deal
and looked forward to this
year’s return. Instead, I revisit
her final trip, relive those firsts
and what I recall of her joy.
III. All day, I have been noticing things—
daylilies clumped along old stone walls,
daisies’ ardent faces vying to be counted
as if pulling petals could tell
what I already know: she loves me . . .
she loves me not . . .
she loves me.
Sarah W. Bartlett
’s work appears in Adanna, Ars Medica, the Aurorean, Minerva Rising, PoemMemoirStory, Mom Egg Review, Wellesley College Women’s Review of Books, and several anthologies including the award-winning Women on Poetry (McFarland & Co. Inc., 2012); and two poetry chapbooks (Finishing Line Press). Her work celebrates nature’s healing wisdom and the human spirit’s landscapes. She founded writinginsideVT for Vermont’s incarcerated women to encourage personal and social change within a supportive community (www.writinginsidevt.com)