Poetry Winter 2019 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Edward Garvey
Nine Songs of Love
I
As if in sync
with a step within
a mirror,
or in time
with a heartbeat
from another time,
I remember you
when I see you.
You are almost
the same.
You your step
your heartbeat each
the same.
You step from
a standing mirror,
this time
wearing a dark
green shirt.
II
As if you pulled
your kept hair back
or changed its color
from dark to black,
your eyes, your
skin you forget
to change.
Or is it
my eyes
my heart
have stayed
the same?
Recurrent love
is a rhythm
that shapes
a lifetime.
I watch you
walk, the rhythm
of your walk,
and the shape
of your legs
in your black
pants.
III
It’s not that your
black hair
or thin smile
or narrow waist
disappear,
or even fade.
It’s that your eyes
are a truth deeper
than color.
The layers of time
collapse when you
look at me.
Everything disappears,
everything fades.
When you turn
away, the rigidity
of time returns,
and I cannot
see your
eyes.
IV
When I see
your eyes,
I do not see
their color.
They are
as colorless
as eternity.
With each glance
I lose balance
and fall into
your eyes.
When I
cannot see
your eyes,
I imagine
their color.
They are the color
of a sunlit
olive tree,
or the crow
that feeds
on the ground.
V
Could you be
anyone, any
woman?
Your cheekbones
do not remind me
of anyone,
but your eyes
remind me
of all women.
Memory is
superimposable—
the shape
of her lips
on yours.
Your body is
fragmented
by my memory.
Parts of you
I have
always known.
All your earrings
though
are new.
VI
The image
of you
not the curve
of your neck
runs through
dreams and
into my past.
The further I fall
into previous lives,
the sharper
the image,
the less
it is you.
This image
is colored
not by clothes, skin,
even your eyes.
This image is naked
continual
transparent.
It is love
itself.
VII
You are name-
less, faceless
almost.
You belong
to any time
any space.
You are with me
when I wake
sleep, breathe.
Usually
with a name,
a face, but not
always.
I know you
as I know
the beginnings
of my childhood
dreams,
stepping off
a cliff—
nothing more.
VIII
An image
remains—it is
but a shadow
in a mirror.
Your back turned
toward me
your face turned
away. The curve
of your back
is an image
in the mirror,
not a reflection.
I have lost you.
As if all
women
were the same
woman and
all men were
the same man,
I have lost you
to love.
IX
As a feather
in a vacuum
my breath
falls when
I see you.
Your smile
is the sun
that dawns against
my night sky.
My heart
is a sea pulled
by the gravity
within your eyes.
You are real,
separate
with a face,
figure,
name.
I say your name
and you turn.
Here and
now.
Edward Garvey
I wrote my first short story and poem in the late 1960s and began my college education as a creative writing major at San Francisco State University. The beauty and power of writing lead me to the beauty and power of the natural world, and I temporarily changed careers paths. After a short diversion of 40 years as a scientist, I’m back to writing full time.