Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2019
    fiction    all issues


Cover Antoine Petitteville

Laura Apol
Easter Morning
& other poems

Taylor Dibble
A Masterpiece in Progress
& other poems

Julia Roth
Lessons From My Menstrual Cup
& other poems

Jamie Ross
Ceaseless Wind. The Drying Sheaves
& other poems

Nicole Yackley
Mea Culpa
& other poems

George Longenecker
I’m sentimental for the Paleolithic
& other poems

Taylor Gardner
Short Observations by Angels
& other poems

Greg Tuleja
No Thomas Hardy
& other poems

Joanne Monte
War Casualties
& other poems

Nathaniel Cairney
Potato Harvest
& other poems

Steven Dale Davison
Wordsmouth Harbor Founder
& other poems

Heather 'Byrd' Roberts
How I Named Her
& other poems

sunny ex
& other poems

Ashton Vaughn
Through the Valley of Mount Chimaera
& other poems

Linda Speckhals
& other poems

Lucy Griffith
Breathing Room
& other poems

Steven Valentine
& other poems

Emily Varvel
B is for Boys and G is for Guys
& other poems

Jhazalyn Prince
Priceless Body
& other poems

Marte Stuart
Generation Snowflake
& other poems

S.J. Enloe
Kale Soup
& other poems

Meghan Dunsmuir
Our Path
& other poems

Writer's Site

S. J. Enloe

Surgeon General’s Warning

Commercials corrupting

kiddies, cancelling

kinder-care. Cancer,

killing. Cultivate caution.

Carcinogen candy

cremates conscious corpses.

Sopas de Caldinho (Kale Soup)

The only way I can make kale soup is with words,

toss letters in a pot with some meat and stir,

hoping something decent comes out. I try

to remember the recipe, the words, but sometimes I lose them.

I remember Vovó tossing live crabs in the boil.

Into the pot they’d go, mixed together in a stew of lost days.

After scattering and writhing, like memories trying to remember,

we’d break their legs to toast another moment soon to be a forgotten thought.

Vovó wasn’t like the other Avós—her Portuguese was on the plate,

in her offering a bolacha when I was fresh and a bolacha when I was good.

It was in her dark hair and tan skin, inherited from Azorean ancestors,

tending to island farms, gathering cabbage and onions, butchering the pigs for chouriço,

mixing them into kale soup—a recipe made from memories,

never written down, just told like old stories,

their travels overseen by half shell Marys,

carried here by planes and boats, shipping

family and feasts, religion and tradition, memories

fresh and forgotten. I cannot remember

sometimes, so I keep stirring the soup,

mixing words—hoping something decent comes out.

The Resilience of Earthworms

The dog never liked earthworms.

He wasn’t a vicious dog.

He never bit, barked too loud,

or ran out of sight.

But in the spring,

after the rain had pushed

the worms through the dirt, he’d pull

them up, bearing his teeth and whip

them against the concrete

wall that surrounded the yard.

After the violent thwack, the worm

would delicately, silently break

in two. I’d watch as the two halves

lay still, then—come alive. They writhed

and wriggled away and back into the ground

and the dog

would lift his leg to the wall.

Displays of Nature II

We sit on the handmade wooden playset.

I don’t remember why we chose that place.

The nameless woman reads us a story

about water bugs and dragonflies.

What do you think the story is about?

Julia can’t form full sentences yet. I answer,

Water bugs turning into dragonflies?

A dragonfly flutters by our heads.

Yes, but what do they represent?

I shrug. Death, the woman says,

as if I should know this. She explains

the allegory of the story, but

I block her out, like everything else

and warm myself in the noonday sun.

Canaries in the Basement

Sometimes I’d sneak

downstairs and peer

through the crack

of the closet

to watch the birds

try to fly. To hear

them sing. My sister

got one for her

birthday. And another.

I never did.

S.J. Enloe is a New England-based writer who received her B.A. in English from Westfield State University in 2016. She enjoys nature and the outdoors, hiking whenever weather and time permit, but is equally content with watching it through a window while daydreaming and conjuring up new writing ideas. When not enjoying nature, she can be found spending time with loved ones or cuddled up on the couch with her dogs.

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