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
Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius
Unknowingness
Shovelfuls
of cicada carcasses
from the base of a
great, wide oak:
I try not to vomit
from the stench. The distant
roar of lawn mowers
at dusk. I start to
collect razor blades
like coins
when the other boys notice
I’m—
“different.” History class
bores me anyway.
I try like hell
to make new
friends, but
my ribs are made
of cellophane.
Tooth marks on
ghost white gossamer,
piles of starch
in porcelain. The clack
of high heels
down the
high school’s hallway,
like the duty-bound
pediatrician
tapping his foot
against the linoleum, as he
tells my weeping mother
about the Tylenol.
Aftershock
Like moonshine bites
the hook of the tongue,
rubs the throat cherry red
raw, the aftershock is the
catastrophe: it unfurls from
your teeth like a moth
from its quiet coma,
bursts into apple blossom
smithereens. Somehow—
somehow: you tame
the seizing locusts; seismologists
will study your painted tip—
toes, balancing, and write papers
on your unbridled poise.
Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius
lives in Southern California with his husband and ethereal, unbelievably perfect dog, Benny, having recently relocated from Chicago. His work has appeared in The Dreaded Biscuits, and he is currently querying agents to represent his first novel. When not writing or being an undeserving Benny dad, he tries to catch up on sleep.