Poetry Winter 2019 fiction all issues
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Cover Florian Klauer
Meli Broderick Eaton
Three Mississippi
& other poems
Andrea Reisenauer
What quiet ache do you wear?
& other poems
Alex Wasalinko
Two Dreams of Vegas
& other poems
AJ Powell
The Grammar Between Us
& other poems
Emma Flattery
Our Shared Jungle, Mr. Conrad
& other poems
Nathaniel Cairney
The Desert Cometh
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Unexpected
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
Jaybird by the Fence
& other poems
Brandon Hansen
Bradley
& other poems
Andy Kerstetter
The Inferno Lessons
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Space Walk
& other poems
Richard Cole
Perfect Corporations
& other poems
Susan Bouchard
Circus Performers
& other poems
Edward Garvey
Nine Songs of Love
& other poems
Mehrnaz Sokhansanj
Sea of Detachment
& other poems
Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius
Aftershock
& other poems
Claudia Skutar
Homage II
& other poems
Donna French McArdle
Knitting Sample
& other poems
Megan Skelly
Puzzle Box Ghazal
& other poems
Tess Cooper
Charged
& other poems
Greg Tuleja
Auschwitz
& other poems
Catherine R. Cryan
Raven
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Last Rhumba
On the day he stopped eating, she
arrived. To say goodbye, yes. But also
to share a song she would have liked
them to dance to at her wedding—with
no date, place or partner in mind—but the wish
to have had that final rite of passage
with her dad. He crawled from his bed
grabbing hold of the moment, her hand.
Her song was one he and I had danced to
under star-studded Westport nights on the deck,
recalling ballroom floors from VT to PR, a dusty
college stage for rueda salsa, local studios
sliding with Argentine tango. Weddings,
bar mitzvahs, reunions—even hotel lobbies—
where Latin beat or swing drew out our dancing feet,
our swaying bodies always drawing looks, asides
those two are so in love, year after year after year.
Barefoot, in high heels, whatever I wore, he
chose his soft black leather Italian shoes.
As now. He rummaged in the closet to pull them out,
dust them off, and slip them slowly onto his waiting feet
his final steps shuffled across the carpet as he leaned
into the strong arms of our youngest. Cheek
to cheek they lurched side to side, the steps slowly
returning to his memory, leading hers to reflect
as she held tight to her father, her dream
made manifest.
Remember These Words
he mouthed, barely
audible through lips
that hardly moved
yet the intensity
of his intent
was clear, hand
clutching mine, eyes
pleading against time
running out. Calm
but insistent, he
wanted to help
everyone he met
even now, late
as it was.
His final words
of advice, promise
and gentle urging
hung in silence
while I strained
to grasp them.
Although I don’t
really know what
he said, I’ll
remember those words
meant for me
at the end.
Alight
he walks toward darkness
as surrounding sky deepens
into night, his path unclear without
the familiar to guide him; yet within
his spirit blazes alight with trust
in what lies ahead.
Shrinking World
The day came when he said, my world has become very small—
my bedroom, bathroom, the toilet. But that was spacious
compared with the day, not so long after that
he struggled for the last time onto the bed.
This is where I’m going to spend
the rest of my life, isn’t it?
Less question than fact.
And it was. The rest
of his life lasting
but three
days.
Unexpected
Cooler than expected, the air
gives in to the sun. Distant
traffic muffles in breeze rising
above the silence of dogs.
A lone seagull pierces inland twitter.
A neighbor speaks, red car passes by.
Ordinary moments of a weekend
in a quiet city enclave.
But I feel what is missing, the lurch
of your uneven gait beside me.
Smile instead at you striding up Sunset Ridge
as I scramble to catch up, perch side by side
to share water, gorp, laughter as the dog
drink-swims the icy stream . . .
Looking around, I see your absence
and my not-yet-coming-to-terms
that our plans are no longer; yet
I go on. I return from my walk
deadhead the Nova Zemla by the door,
snip a newly-bloomed peony for the house,
enter the silence I have just left to find it
alive with sun, comfort of the familiar
and your gentle presence still
warm in my heart.
Sarah W. Bartlett
’s work appears in Adanna, Ars Medica, The Aurorean, Colére, 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. In 2010 she founded writinginsideVT for Vermont’s incarcerated women to encourage personal/social change within a supportive community.