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
Brenna Robinson
provisions, these
provisions, these. expired
as they are, they remain,
a tattered blanket over
icy toes: better than
nothing. a can of tomato
soup, rusty at the rim,
admired and retired
to its place of honor:
the back bottom shelf
abutting the water
heater. how many
false prophets it lived
through, it deserves
to outlive one more.
preserve this historical
monument, simply too
good to eat, aged to
perfection since reagan,
yes, a useful reminder
to rotate our stock.
maybe someday we’ll
fill these tunnels in
this is the passage where
I tunneled out from my dread,
never believing it wouldn’t
collapse. this is where I
learned my fingernails
aren’t strong but brittle, I say,
as I lift the bottom of your
shirt and touch my calloused
nubs to that soft skin you
never show the sun.
I don’t know if I met you
down here in the catacombs
or if it was when I emerged
under the star-specked sky
that I first saw you standing
right where I needed you
to be, but we come here
sometimes to remember
what it was like before.
I say, look, this is the alcove
where I stopped digging,
rolled myself into the fetal
position and slept for weeks.
you say, see, this is where
I sat staring at my own knees
until I heard thunder above
me, and then I cried
thinking of all that mud.
what a privilege it is now
to be a visitor, to go home
together, with you fitting
perfectly into the crook
of my arm, soft and warm
repurposed
she knows what it is to make a pantry
out of a storm cellar or declare a bomb
shelter nothing more than a hole
this is somewhere her fears wanted
her to be, and she was so focused
on winning against them she forgot
they were built for real dangers
It was the left, though, wasn’t it
And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out,
and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for
thee that one of thy members should perish, and
not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
—Matthew 5:29
You stood with us, rosebush adjacent,
crooked head, nothing if not asymmetrical.
Parts of you were absolutely missing, I
couldn’t fail to notice, your connection
to us: tenuous. Their mouths said I
could trust you, their eyes were not
so sure. Your eye: alone and lonely.
Did you merely get born again or exorcise
the part of your brain that made you
a guy who’d beat his wife nigh to death?
I knew: grandfathers were supposed
to have workshops, farms, apple orchards,
were meant to give presents beyond
Bible verses. They should have something
to offer besides a heavy sense of unease.
Brenna Robinson
is originally from Holland, Michigan, and has a BA in Creative Writing from Knox College. She resides in Indiana with her partner, three cats, and an iguana.