Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems
Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems
Tee Iseminger
Construction
& other poems
Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems
Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems
Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems
Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems
Daniel Stewart
January
& other poems
John Glowney
Cigarettes
& other poems
Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems
Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems
Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems
David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems
Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems
Rande Mack
rat
& other poems
J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems
Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems
Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems
James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems
Kelsey Charles
Autobiography
& other poems
Therese L. Broderick
Polly
& other poems
Lane Falcon
Touch
& other poems
Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems
Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems
David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems
Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems
Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems
Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems
David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems
Helen R. Peterson
Ablaut
& other poems
Autobiography
He told the story like eating soup,
hot soup that steamed boiling
fresh from the stove, and we watched,
listened as he blew languid on each word
to cool it for our consumption.
“You’ve lived such an interesting life,”
I said, I hovered in my admiration, waiting
for him to continue. But he stopped,
told me my life was just as interesting
and smiled knowingly.
He went back to his soup. I hung
on his words waiting for resolution.
Paris, stolen kiss, the graveyard,
the subway, the walk, the loss and escape
from commitment. By the end,
I was full. I knew the meat was in the telling.
Fishing with Teddy
The man could not keep quiet as he cast his line,
pulled it back in, and cast it again without regard for finesse.
Teddy said, “I don’t understand why the damned fish
don’t like my bait.” I didn’t tell him they never had a chance to see it.
I offered to bring beer, but Teddy brought whisky—
“there’s no point in half-assing it.” It being getting drunk.
I imagine for Teddy fishing was a mythical romp of triumph
over the small brained swimmer, ending with a feast of his foe.
There was no waiting. Teddy didn’t wait. For ten minutes he yo-yoed
his line in the water, never letting it rest. He asked “Are there
fish in this river? I don’t think they’re there.” And he fidgeted:
crossed his legs, stood up, sat down, stretched an arm, formed a fist.
When he put down his rod, I knew there was trouble.
He went between the trees and broke off a branch the size of a bat.
I ducked as he took a few swings and argued when he stripped his pants.
He waded in like a hungry bear, and finally was still. Five minutes.
I jumped when the splash came, I hadn’t seen him move,
but Teddy swung away and the fish flopped on the bank
beside me, a wounded enemy brought low.
“Gut it, let’s eat.” Teddy commanded. I complied.
Ten Miles Away
We ate more than our stomachs could handle
that night as we sat with my Dad’s friends
I’d only just met, but the pots still over flowed with meats.
The sausage and bratwursts, the steaks and lamb
tenderloin, the pork chops all remained. The fried
potatoes, the creamed corn, long skinny beans, and
bits of carrot, we couldn’t finish. But they smiled
as I fell out of my chair, too heavy for legs.
And we rested outside, on the porch, the nylon chairs
sagging. I gazed at the fields without end until
the clear Kansas night fell. And they told me
the land was so flat you never knew the horizon,
that my eyes would break before I saw the end.
And there was a storm that night, but we were dry,
watching lightning spring from the sky ten miles away,
soundlessly illuminating the clouds in the dark.
I dreamt I died in Montparnasse
I dreamt I died in Montparnasse,
a careening moped to the skull.
People rushed around my body
and I watched them in third person.
I was abstract, a spirit, a specter
wandering in my death, the streets
around were filled with life, and I felt
apart. Then my vision blurred
and I saw other beings, great hordes
of ghosts and ghouls about the town
strolling through the living.
The artists and musicians of Paris past
romped about, gathered together again.
In the spaces they were most alive
they returned to in their death.
Outside of Henry Tanner’s house they
beat against the gate, the lines of pilgrims
returned for comments on their work.
They huddled in the sunny shadows,
burdened with translucent canvases
clutched to keep from drifting.
The Bobino raged with crowds while
Josephine waved from a car outside.
She’d returned in her prime, showered
in illusionary ticker tape parade.
It poured from the sky and floated
down through shades of past and present.
At the St. Louis Bar that night, phantom
jazz twined with modern pop, though
neither heard the other. The bar was packed
with dead on living, both dancing non-stop.
The air kinetic, emotions of both groups
went rushing like a flood. They moved
as though their souls depended on the joy
they’d felt in their warm blood.
John
You lay in the field, liquor in hand,
dead with brandy for blood.
You were hard to see in the two foot weeds,
Why couldn’t you have died courteous?
The kids who stepped on you didn’t flinch,
except for the new kid
from Connecticut. He looked on
as the neighbor kids rummaged
in your pockets. Thank him
that you were picked up at all.
When the morgue man came,
he saw fourteen dollars:
you were his dinner with a coke.
He called you John, and apologized
for the bumpy ride.
On the icy tray they laid you flat,
struggled with your arms,
then left you in the freezer bank
for someone else to claim.
Go on, wait in the closet for no one.
Kelsey Charles
writes poetry and fiction whenever he can. But, of course, time is finite and always seems to be escaping him. He currently teaches English Writing and Public Speaking at Beijing Language and Culture University in China where he lives with his wife and daughter. Despite living in China for four years, he is still learning Chinese.