Poetry Winter 2021 fiction all issues
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Cover
Andrej Lišakov
Laura Apol
I Take a Realtor through the House
& other poems
Rebekah Wolman
How I Want my Body Taken
& other poems
Devon Bohm
The Word
& other poems
Gillian Freebody
The Right Kind of Woman
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
Gravestone Flowers
& other poems
Laura Turnbull
Restoration
& other poems
Andre F. Peltier
A Fistful of Ennui
& other poems
Peter Kent
Reflections on the Late Nuclear Attack on Boston
& other poems
Carol Barrett
Canal Poem #8: Hides
& other poems
Alix Lowenthal
Abortion Clinic Waiting Room
& other poems
Latrise P. Johnson
From My Women
& other poems
Brenna Robinson
repurposed
& other poems
may panaguiton
MOON KILLER
& other poems
Elizabeth Farwell
The Life That Scattered
& other poems
Bill Cushing
Two Stairways
& other poems
Richard Baldo
A Note to Prepare You
& other poems
Blake Foster
Aubade from the Coast
& other poems
Bernard Horn
Glamour
& other poems
Harald Edwin Pfeffer
Still stiff with morning cold
& other poems
Nia Feren
Neon Orange Tree Trunks
& other poems
Everett Roberts
A Mourning Performance
& other poems
Alaina Goodrich
The Way I Wander
& other poems
Olivia Dorsey Peacock
the iron maiden and other adornments
& other poems
Nia Feren
Neon Orange Tree Trunks
My focus oscillates
between my coffee’s lazy steam swaying,
and three tailored spheres of dust-coated
leaves—either side of a rustic wooden gate—
guarding the grand mansion
deprived of human touch.
A forced garden on a painted pavement stands, autumn’s
touch goes unnoticed—
All grey, grunting ghouls
in and around six little sad trees.
The yarn of caffeinated vapor endlessly,
pirouettes and prances
veiling, then unveiling the trees.
Something bright! Something ablaze!
Fiery orange spews out the trunk
with a curved spine, they rest as though sculpted,
outside the soulless mansion. I see only them—
The drenched laborers taking shade
under the fishnet shadows in their neon
orange vests,
no more drilling infinitely into the pavement the merciless
sun demands
a quiet sight.
How loud their minds must be?
If only my hearing range fits
within their frequencies. I know
not of how long,
or how far they’ve come only
to nest under these fishnet
shadows.
I know not if the man with
the missing tooth misses
his children,
or if he has a family at all?
I know not of the man
with eyes shut, dreams in
color
or black or stoic white.
I know not of the story
behind the scar
disappearing into
his vest’s hem.
I know not if they live
grieving the death
of a life they inched
towards, but never lived . . .
I walk towards them,
my hands cold from carrying
chilled mango-juice bottles;
I place them in each jagged palm.
Them and I,
may have different stories with
snowflake shaped scars, tongues
rolling into languages that don’t mix
and races that are miles
apart. Yet, I felt
the warmth, the love, the
gratitude,
that sprouted out of their
crinkled eyes, with gap
toothed smiles louder than
the drilling of all heads
combined,
“Thank you, beti,”* smiles the one with the missing tooth.
*Daughter
White noise
after “A Rose from Jericho” by Omar Singer
I lay down in the middle of
the garden in protest the
storm stirs, I stir,
in detest rain slaps my body down.
Ten minutes. Only ten minutes
before her eyebrows frenzy at her grand-daughter cosy, under
the cold, pouring rain.
Ten minutes before she yells,
‘Are you crazy?’, convinced fever would find me.
I seal tight my eyes, the video from Gaza on repeat: Beneath
an anxious roof, an anxious family sit; Missiles fly and
fragility reeks.
I wince at the gasp of the little girl’s voice—scared
blue eyes scavenge safety in her toys her father
scoops her, rosary beads sprint chanting so loud
but the war cry wins!
Dying a thousand deaths before their house crumbles until
voices replace thuds-
a command, an unmusical roar, bang! The
53-year long cycle repeats
I hear it all in white noise, lost in ‘technical’ translation. I hear it
all sizzling, hot inside my head.
I hear it. I collect myself, “Stop crying, be
grateful that it’s not you instead!.” Eyes
flaming, I paralyze in helplessness. Will
withers, whimpers at this thing called
humanity—
the white noise wrapped in sweet silence.
Birds chirp unaware, the cows moo in reply . . .
The earth invites me, tossing the
honeyed serenity from tree to tree
away from desolation, closer to doomsday I lay,
peacefully in my mossy casket listening to the
conflict being retold
in thousand different voices,
in thousand different media strains. I
listen, and I listen. I hear static.
My grandmother finds me—she
yells, like clockwork.
Nia Feren
, a 19-year-old aspiring Indian poet, is currently doing her bachelor’s in English Major, Journalism and Psychology. She writes poems, short stories, articles or any piece of writing that comes her way. Writing for her is a release; a sort of prayer, to say the very least. Being published in PoetrySoup’s anthology (2020) and having won inter-collegiate poetry contests before, she looks forward to publishing an anthology of hers soon. Email: niaferen100@gmail.com Instagram: antithetical.minded.girl