Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
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Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
I want a carpenter. No, not
Jesus. He’s too busy for house calls.
But someone like him, with miracle hands.
I need a bookcase built. I want it to be made of
white birch, sanded until it gleams,
painted with dark vines; all thorns, no flowers.
What else? The roof. The broken shingles
let in the rain and the damn squirrels, and let
out warmth, light, hope.
My foot needs to be looked at, too. It trembles
when I least expect. I’ll take a stopgap in the meantime,
a book tucked under it to steady me, but
I want its replacement to be wood,
the hard kind—camelthorn or black
ironwood or quebracho, to finally make me sturdy.
My teeth need to blunted, of course. Too many
sharp edges. Baby-proof them. Sand them.
Build an iron cage around my mouth.
The spine’s more difficult. I want it straightened
from its strange, uncomfortable bell-curve,
hammered until it finally lays unbroken and proud.
The long-term project is unknotting the mess of my gut—
that cramped, tangled worm gnawed through by those twin vultures:
worry and anguish. Be patient. Be
kind or it will get worse. It will take time.
It will get your hands dirty.
Lastly, the ribs. String up fairy lights in the hollows between each
vulnerable bone, illuminating all those dark spaces—
the wing-spread lungs, the thrumming heart: still beating, beating, beating.
Kristina Cecka
received her B.A. in English and Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. After several years living overseas, she returned to her hometown in Minneapolis, MN, where she now lives with her two cats and a ridiculous amount of books. Her publication in Sixfold will be her first time being published.