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
Kimberly Russo
My Brain This Morning
shoes—
with no socks—to
fill the bird-feeder—my feet look worn—
my kids have such smooth, beautiful hands
and feet—do they think my feet look old—did I
think my mom’s feet looked old when I was young—
did she even wear open-toed shoes—flip-flops—we called them
“thongs”—what did she wear to work—red lipstick, short skirt,
square-heeled pumps—no pointy heels behind the bar—(entangles
in the mats) bartender—so many years—that’s what invited the
bladder cancer—second-hand smoke—she’s grabbing her
crotch, moaning, Oh my God—Oh my God—every
time she urinates in her Depends—lying
on the bed—otherwise incoherent—
dying
Superman was Never Intended
to be Viewed in Black & White
In black and white
Superman,
the 1978 version.
An image of Christopher Reeve,
fists piercing confines,
fleeing Earth’s atmosphere,
forever framed by the 8x8
television.
9th birthday, looming
Silent guest, anxiety
dread of uncertainty
Childish hope and a mother’s promise
a sizeable slumber party.
Sleeping bags, pillows, and innocence
stuffing into a tiny,
two-bedroom rental.
A problem of “Absent Parents”
Categorical vulnerability,
canvasing to convince guests.
Creating excuses,
assuaging concerns.
And the TV, our first, (used)
Color TV—the conveyor of a cinematic
savior—broken.
A white blouse
flecked with blood
Faltering feet
No, no. She was fine
Just a fender-bender
fractured nose—a few cracked ribs.
Unseemly gesticulations and
slurred pleas to stay on.
The house emptied,
I watched her sleeping.
Familiar pangs of
disappointment and resolve,
quieted with overwhelming love.
Light from the screen
casting shadows, a muted hero
in black and white.
Missed Signs
The bus pulls away as it does every day, a
snapshot of yellow in a framework of gray. After
lessons and learning relayed and conveyed,
connections with peers convincingly made, My
role as a student so perfectly played, I stand at the
corner, alone and afraid.
I fear not my surroundings, nor the path that I tread . . .
The route is familiar along with the dread, the resolute
realization of what lies ahead. Lord knows her
“condition” can leave her half—dead. My need for
security withers, unfed.
I’m turning the corner; my house is in view,
anxiety turns a darker hue.
Oh my God, if you only knew
the hell and the heartache I’ve been through.
All the signs . . . you’ve misconstrued
while you, Mother, have come unglued.
Selective Memories are
the only Gift of Dementia
I will send you a little note today.
Stationery bought with you in mind,
knowing you would admire
delicate purple flowers
bordering scalloped edges.
I see you—savoring
every word
beneath your smudged magnifying glass.
We talk on the phone
every day, reminiscing.
We laugh.
You say you feel better
just hearing my voice
you and Daddy will visit soon.
I used to call those words “pie-crust promises.”
It’s hard to fathom
the missed opportunities,
the years you spent nursing a hangover
instead of my children.
With all of the states and circumstances
separating you from me,
my bitterness softens
with your ebbing memories.
Some of your days
are better than others.
Some days, you say
my dad is dead and ask me
if I’ve seen him lately.
You shout, “My time is almost up!”
Now the world has its own circumstances,
a virus to freeze us in place but not in time.
I write my memory on creamy-white paper
(with purple flowers.)
take flight down the pier of the beach,
you carrying our shoes in one hand,
my toddler-hand tethered to your other.
Weaving through board-walkers, we chant, “Aua, Aua, Aua!” in
your German tongue. Grey-winged seagulls chuckle and mew
encouragement of our hot-footed flight.
A California pier stretches endlessly, and my blonde hair is
a comet’s tail reaching back to the sea.
Kimberly Russo
is an English teacher in Aurora, Colorado, where she resides with her husband, Tony. She is the mother of four children, Nicholas, [Stephanie,] Audrey, Grace, and Maritza, and a proud grandmother to Doc and Willa. Kimberly spends her free time gardening and bird-watching. Much of her writing is dedicated to marriage/family, social issues, including the perpetuating inequality among genders/races, and the stigma associated with mental illness.