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
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how
he’d like to be buried
which is not buried so much as laid in some field
or meadow or shadow of a mountain underneath
a blue shout where the thrasher’s cry threads cloud
to cloud and the sun is overflowing with itself,
trembling in its goodness, its kaleidoscope light
tripping down leaves to where the tall grass bears
his body, heavy in its solitude and easy, and he
will never catch chill again after he hands himself
over to the tender nature of things, after a harvest
mouse beds in his hollow socket and the pearl strand
of his spine goes wasteland to roots, his lungs splayed
like open palms and flowering with dog-tooth violets
as he lets earth overtake him bit by replaceable bit
still becoming, becoming, becoming.
Summer Rand
, a graduate student of English, is a burgeoning poet who writes to reflect the world around her. Much of her work isolates the tender moments of grief and human connection she stumbles upon in order to find life and light beyond endings. She currently writes from Georgia, and she is hopeful that her poems will find their place in a chapbook following her graduation.