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
Meli Broderick Eaton
Two Miracles
the first, when you arrive
fallen from stars
into the bare mountains
of your story untold.
wet and slow to awaken,
your wings unfold in deep
and wanderous valleys as you learn
to pick up your shadow, carry it
in the shifting shape of yourself
and roll dust from between your toes
after everlong days of walking,
trailing the sun across the sky
falling and rising, falling and rising
gathering seeds in your skin
and bees in your hair as you speed
flower to limb to peak and finally, there
you pause
long enough to quiet the bees, to feel
the earth’s iron pull against your bones,
hear the wind calling your name
in a language you have forgotten.
when you step down from the top
into the known unknown afternoon
amber glow of failing day etches
a view more precious in descent
as footprint following footprint you diminish,
teaspoon by teaspoon digging your grave.
in mudding light, the sun lands one last time
and you follow lightning bug lanterns
into the darkness, to the other miracle
when you lay yourself down
next to your shadow untethered.
free of your rusted frame you answer
the wind in its language remembered
fly back to your constellation,
to your waiting cocoon in the stars.
Shatter
Proof
because love always ends
that’s just the way it works
I was already broken before
my hand ran down her side
pressing river water from her fur
when the cradle between my thumb
and index finger stopped
against a fleshy mass hidden
under the soft double coat of her hip.
smaller than a golf ball, maybe
like one of those little limes at the store,
at first, I thought it was her bone
popped out of place from jumping
after a rabbit on yesterday’s walk
but I knew it wasn’t so simple.
the fracture that wasn’t captured
when I stood back up last time
sent tendrils skating through my chest
pausing my heart
pulling apart what was left
of my smooth surfaces.
I remember my father’s doctor, his metallic words
each falling like an anvil through my gut
tunneling through the DNA that bound us
terminal
as if he were a bus
aggressive
as though he were a dog
lung
which isn’t where it started
as if it could be trained, would stay in place
once identified.
then the vet, holding my gaze like a warm hand
this isn’t the kind we do anything about
so we waited, not really waiting
but what do you call it
when you see the end that hasn’t happened yet
she will eventually encounter pain
which she didn’t, or
it will outgrow her body’s ability to accommodate
which it did, so
we traced the intricate vascular system
it created for itself through paper skin
we watched as it grew and we knew
she would soon chase the same shadow
that swallowed my father
the soft bodies of my grandmothers
and cat after cat after cat
that thought it was faster than cars
Old Crow
oldcrow settles wingfold glossed
brushdeath suddensit by my side
bitrust voice airscratches harsh
unsettles my quietmind to answer
the don’tdare question
I don’t dare ask
but oldcrow knows
old soulfetch knows mytime and folkworry
not yet, you, muddletalk crowspeaks
steadies my flutterheart clutchbeats
but who, then whotime now
thoughtscatter I carefulwatch
the regal shinebeak slowturn
greenglint black feathershimmer
peering eyespy one side
to the other, patientknowing,
patientknowing he waits
beadblack buttoneye lands
where swiftbrown birdswoop
neatly quickends spidercrawl
ohsoclose my startlefeet
crowtoes bent watches brownbird fly
legsprawled spider to waitbabies nested
their needcries treed nearby
beakspread he laughcaws
see? evermore you live until you don’t
unfurls paperdash wings and jumplifts
airstroke into the evelight
see you soonlong
he whisperscrapes
soonlong
into the nextwind of thisnight
Three Mississippi
One Mississippi
when I first became lightning
I was driving to pick up my son
the world went impossibly bright
no time to count the seconds
to wonder who would bring my child home
before the heavens came crashing
in that nanosecond of life inside light
deafened and blinded, when I guessed
I was dead, a thousand thoughts crowded
of all the things left undone—
the syrup bottle on the counter
the dog waiting next to his leash
all the words not laid inside
the soft shells of my children’s ears
for hours, the smell and taste of ozone
my trembling hands
reminded me that I had been placed
back into myself by powers far beyond
my own and I was grateful
to put away the syrup
to clip leash to collar
to whisper over the sleeping cocoons of my boys
Two Mississippi
the second time I became lightning
my dog led me beyond the trees
the clouds had grown necrotic and eerie
dropping low as they spiraled upward
I called to Atlas and we hurried
down from the balded ridge
away from what brewed
we hadn’t yet reached the low ground
when everything popped into light
its intensity too much to comprehend
there still wasn’t time to count
before the heavens cracked open
sending Atlas crying to my feet
but this time, in front of x-rayed tree trunks
I saw a miracle
an orb where lightning stabbed
down from the sky and snaked
up from the earth, meeting mid-air
as though summoned by the branches
conjured by the wizarding elements
the electric scent of ozone made me think
the idea of dying this way
not by storm but in a magical flash
a sudden bolt that outruns pain
and outlasts time in its fractional existence
might be the best way to leave
the waning cavern of my body
Three Mississippi
the last time I become lightning
I want it to be like this:
when my sons are strong and weathered
like the stones that form the ridge
when maybe most of all those undone things
have been crossed off and Atlas and all the dogs
that will come after him have gone
to hold up the heavens as they wait
for us to return to them, then
in a brilliant burst, my soul takes flight
out of time, I am released
into a billion particles of light
Meli Broderick Eaton
studied with poet Mary Oliver and author John Gregory Brown at Sweet Briar College. Her poems have received recognition in two The Source Weekly/OSU-Cascades MFA poetry contests, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, and the Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition, and she won first place in the Oregon Poetry Association New Poets spring 2019 contest. Her work has also appeared in Flying South magazine. She lives with her family on a suburban microfarm in Oregon.