Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
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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
Winner of $1000 for 1st-place-voted Poems
Anne Rankin-KotchekLetter to the World from a Dying Woman
for Ron Garson
Approaching 44, I just feel it’s over.
I lie in a kind of permanent autumn:
my bones talking back,
shoulders curled in a parenthesis ’round my heart,
& any remaining veins of hope tangled in despair.
Don’t ask me how I got here—
I can’t make you understand
something you don’t want to know.
But like the sky I have a story to tell:
wisdom I might have passed on to a daughter
if only she had arrived,
things I would have said to myself
if only I had listened.
Now, I see it clearly: there are many ways to die—
some of them don’t even involve death.
You might come to know this later.
Or you can listen to me now,
before your song is up & while my urgency to speak
succeeds my tendency to descend.
The thing is, somewhere to the left of your spine,
your soul is waiting to tell you
everything you need to know.
Stuff like this:
the best way to deal with regret is to
do what you want in the first place.
And, where it is necessary,
do not give up or give in.
But also, where it is necessary,
give up & give in.
The road less traveled isn’t always on the map,
but seek it without waver,
like a dog pursues his home.
If you wait too long for the green light,
you’ll spend your life stuck in traffic. Go ahead.
Mix apples & oranges:
the world needs more fruit salad.
At least once a year, check out the way
pinks collide with orange in the sunrise.
Remember not to give your heart
to someone you don’t trust with your head.
If you grow the little voice inside of you
(add plenty of music & moonlight), it will
take you where you need to go.
Your skin also has a voice, so listen.
In fact, let your body do the talking.
Swim in the air & dance in the water.
Don’t forget to try an ocean on for size:
no matter who you are it will be a good fit.
Be sure to bring enough air. Your lungs
were meant to be filled & emptied, just like your days.
Tend to a living thing as though you’re being graded on it.
And get to know the earth on a first-name basis.
But don’t take the rain personally.
Life is very, very, very unfair.
Sex & doughnuts can help,
but they’re not a permanent cure.
Most of all, find love
in the answer, the question, & the pause in between.
And when you step outside
the lines drawn by all of your others (even you),
treat yourself like the bliss-bound, spring-leaning
creature you were always meant to be.
Then come back to tell me all about it,
before my song is up & while my urgency to speak
succeeds my tendency to descend.
In the Wake of My Father’s Orbit
for Marty Rankin
He was a brilliant star, but
he was damaged too.
He gave off an entirely different
sort of light, and we were transfixed,
forsaken as the contrails of his angels.
I see him standing in the corner of our kitchen,
the distracted mathematician mumbling numbers
(never realizing that we were growing
and multiplying in space and time).
And then the sudden flash of anger, stunning
in its own way:
such potential for pain and shadow.
Everything about it was distorted:
the way we looked up to him—though
we had no choice, held under nature’s sway—
and how it mattered to us so the way he shone,
how his brilliance glittered off of us
and splintered us in a thousand ways.
On Sundays the six of us knelt beside him on the pew,
our palms pressed together, fingers pointed upwards
like candles reaching for a flame.
With every “Amen” came the shame:
we would always disappoint him.
But his light was a prism
we could not turn away from,
even when we knew
it would grow us crooked,
break us into dark shards.
More Than Candy
Night. Feels later than darkness.
Way past a child’s bedtime.
We have no bedtime.
My younger brother and I climb
out his bedroom window
opening into the summer air,
buoyant as dreams.
Big plans.
We fly off the garage roof,
jumping to the ground and roll.
Old pros.
Sometimes others tag along.
Tonight we’re on our own.
Two tadpoles.
Our parents, unaware as always,
sit inside with Johnny Carson.
They never laugh.
It’s the other side of the house.
More like the other side of the moon.
We smile, bikes ready
to carry us anywhere.
As far as we dare,
Brian says with his eyes.
We sail under the stars, shooting
for 7-11 like it has all the answers.
Pedaling in our high-tops,
we wade through fireflies
with the flurry of superheroes.
We are the great escapers.
Inside the store, the choices
never fail to dazzle.
We own the aisles, but we know
it isn’t about the sweets.
We choose our favorites
and head back into the dark.
I turn to my brother
as he unwraps a Reese’s.
I love him more than candy.
The Journey
for Margaret Elizabeth Regina
But after a while the road seems to drive you.
And that’s okay, if you like
mile markers and weigh stations
that measure nothing of importance
the whine of your tires on pavement
endless potholes and truck stops
speed bumps and rumble strips
the white lines and orange cones
highways that leave you low
exit ramps that steer you nowhere
faded billboards and tires blown
signs to places you’ll never go
and if you want your steering wheel
to serve as the compass of your life.
But you know me.
If there’s a sky above
then that’s my path to the sea.
And I’d rather be
musing with a mountain,
wondering what the crows know,
making plans with the firs and pine,
knowing I can take my time,
and not let my travels
be decreed by the speed limit
but by how fast—or slow—
my heart wants to go.
The Only Prayer
I can’t do the big prayers:
don’t know the Rosary,
won’t crumple my torso over my knees on the floor—
arms outstretched with audacity.
You won’t find me facing Mecca, or
orchestrating the Amidah,
or waiting for the wafer silently hunched over the pew.
I have no idea how to bow
(or to whom)
and may submit that flailing on the floor in foreign tongues
or slipping notes in the Wailing Wall
will almost certainly ensure one’s heavenly requests
remain unanswered.
Sometimes, getting up in the morning is
the only prayer I know,
the best I can offer
to whatever deity
may or may not be
waiting for me to tumble humbly out of bed.
Anne Rankin-Kotchek
is a freelance editor and writer. Her nonfiction has appeared in The Sun, The Mount Desert Islander, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. She graduated summa cum laude from Ohio State with a BA in English. Current projects include a book of poems, short stories, and a memoir. She cannot say enough good things about dogs, and, although an extreme introvert, she continues to build the tender, delicate bridges (she’s certain) connect us all.