Poetry Summer 2021 fiction all issues
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Cover
Diana Akhmetianova
Monique Jonath
Viscosity
& other poems
Alix Christofides Lowenthal
Before and After
& other poems
Rebbekah Vega-Romero
La Persona Que Quiero Ser
& other poems
Oak Morse
Incandescent Light That Peeks Through Secrets
& other poems
George Kramer
The Last Aspen Stand
& other poems
Elizabeth Sutterlin
Meditations on Mars
& other poems
Holly Marie Roland
Clearfelling
& other poems
Devon Bohm
A Bouquet of Cherry Blossoms
& other poems
Ana Reisens
In praise of an everyday object
& other poems
Maxi Wardcantori
The Understory
& other poems
William A. Greenfield
Sometimes
& other poems
Karen L Kilcup
The Sky Is Just About to Fall
& other poems
Pamela Wax
He dreams of birds
& other poems
Mary Jane Panke
Apophasis
& other poems
a mykl herdklotz
Mouettes et Mastodontes
& other poems
Claudia Maurino
Good Pilgrim
& other poems
Mary Pacifico Curtis
One Mystical Day
& other poems
Tess Cooper
Airport Poem
& other poems
Peter Kent
Congress of Ravens
& other poems
Kimberly Sailor
White Women Running
& other poems
Bill Cushing
Creating a Corpse
& other poems
Everett Roberts
Hagar
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Canada Geese
& other poems
Karen L Kilcup
The Sky Is Just About to Fall
Clean of ash for months, the fireplace’s breathless mouth
awaits a match. The storms have pivoted, south
to north. Black birds disturbed
by shifts in light, in magnetism, whirl as one body
in carnival arcs; landing, they clatter
in shagbarks. In the quirk
of autumn thunderstorms, their cries merge with leaf-
speckled wind. The cat scatters carcasses
about the yard: rabbit’s foot
amid asters, mouse hindquarters beneath rugosas’
orange hips. The garden feeds the eyes
alone: a single cherry tomato bush bears
green stones that never ripen. In these elongating
months, the ones with an “r,” a growl, I wake
to find you gone to dig for oysters,
as if we’re going to starve. Mornings on the marsh
teams of hunters in camouflage slog
through fog, lugging guns,
decoys, blinds, to return at nightfall dangling
ragged pairs of geese with smoky eyes.
You navigate the shallows,
raking muck, mired in certainty. At home you slide
the curved knife into cracks and shuck,
lustrous flesh exposed.
One night, I’m drifting rudderless, alone, along a muddy
river full of snags. Your cry shipwrecks me:
The sky is just about to fall
inside the stairs! We wake between seasons, dizzy
in thinning light. These days, we compost
leaves and leavings.
Warm in our shells, at dusk we walk into darkness.
Holding hands through gloves, we kiss,
lips thick with balm.
Restoration
His father, a giant man,
made him learn
the art of restoration.
The workshop boasted
racks and racks of screwdrivers,
slotted and torx, Phillips and hex,
and blades for crosscutting
and ripping pine and oak.
Between sips of Scotch
his father measured
his child against
a blunt-edged board,
then switched the screaming
power saw on high—
every cut the perfect length.
The son’s job was to watch and wait.
He absorbed the moods
and vagaries of wood, the way
a table leg could double
as a baseball bat or club
in practiced hands.
And now on weekends he mends engines.
In an antique, perfect world
pistons slip in oiled cylinders
spark plugs fire in order
and wires are never broken.
He crouches in the tiny cavity.
Expertly, he makes himself small
above a bloom of coil and steel,
grasping scraps of crimson flannel
torn in nine-inch squares
to mop up drops of grease or beer.
He believes nothing
can’t be fixed
in time.
The Drinker’s Wife
The red-tailed hawk circles wide,
never lands.
Yet she’s seen its nest lodged
in the crooked maple, a haven
beyond squirrels or human voices.
And who would dare
disturb the eggs?
The bird spirals up,
down, finding drafts
even in breathless
air, making wind visible.
On the days she sees
them both, she wonders
if, like many birds,
hawks pair for life.
How long can the hawk stay
aloft? The twisted maple lifts
the nest. At its base,
rusty barbed wire bites deep
inside its thickening girth.
“As the Sea Develope Pearl,
and Weed”
But only to Himself be known/ The Fathoms they abide—
—Emily Dickinson
Erect at the end
of the bed, he stares,
demanding: Who are you?
Who are you?
Another night he shouts,
his face floats and flames,
she’s pressed against the wall,
sucking air. His fist thrusts
beside her ear and opens
a hole in the plaster,
blind black eye.
Her tongue grows thick
from biting it, drowning
his cargo fathoms
deep: nigger, spic,
and jigaboo, faceless names
that anchor her in muck.
By day, his face abrades
her cheek with every kiss.
She hoards the unmentioned
as a thunderhead holds lightning,
as the child’s tongue
seeks her missing tooth,
as the amputee projects
her lopped-off limb, the hand
that cannot grasp.
Still Life: Divorce
A swollen cirrus veil
trails north. For better
or worse, the season’s
turned. It’s the driest fall
in years. The garden leaves
a stunted seedless cantaloupe
split by frost.
In autumn’s bitter changes
I put the flower beds
to rest, and groom
the gravel drive,
imagine setting bulbs
in a broad ring
fattening for May,
daffodils blooming
in a spring shower.
From an arid sky,
snow falls like rice.
Karen L Kilcup
I’ve been teaching for over forty years, writing poetry for over thirty. I’m the Elizabeth Rosenthal Professor of American Literature, Environmental & Sustainability Studies, and Women’s, Gender, & Sexuality Studies at UNC Greensboro. My students, who are diverse, generous, inclusive, and imaginative, astonish and educate me. Getting older has its benefits, which include being able to see the (sometimes very painful) past honestly, even ruthlessly.