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Poetry Summer 2022    fiction    all issues

Cover of Poetry Summer 2022

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Joanne Monte
Departure
& other poems

Holly York
Still When I Reach for the Leash
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Catholicism Still Lingers in a Concrete Poem
& other poems

D.T. Christensen
Coded Language
& other poems

Laura Faith
Ungodly
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
Winter in Choctaw
& other poems

Natalie LaFrance-Slack
Peace
& other poems

Nicole Sellino
iii. moving, an interruption
& other poems

Gilaine Fiezmont
In Memoriam / Day of the Dead
& other poems

Sheri Flowers Anderson
On Being A Widow
& other poems

RJ Gryder
Felling
& other poems

William S. Barnes
to hatch
& other poems

Suzannah Van Gelder
Idolatry
& other poems

Sam Bible-Sullivan
The Dying Worker’s Soliloquy
& other poems

Hills Snyder
Eclipse (July 4, 2020)
& other poems

Lauren Fulton
Birth Marks
& other poems

David Sloan
Prostrate
& other poems

Nancy Kangas
Dry Dock Cranes of Brooklyn Navy Yard
& other poems

Noreen Graf
In Attendance
& other poems

Jim Bohen
Nothing Tea
& other poems

Thomas Baranski
Let us name him dread and look forward
& other poems


Laura Faith

Ungodly

The socks are of wool or

of some other ungodly material.

You put them on. You know

you will itch. You hate

feeling prisoner

to your skin,

but you reckon

the baby

tethered to you now

might learn to stack the books

in his playpen one day, might

show you

how at not even two

he has managed to carve

his own way out.

His yearning hangs like anvil,

like a threat

to your head,

and you, nearing thirty,

wonder why

you suddenly feel it—

a most wholesome urge

to shrink.



The Summer after Graduation

Westwood, California—June 2014


We sit on the roof of Red Roebling, unmindful

of its dilapidation, the cockroach your roommate

stomped to guts the hour before, or the homemade

mouse traps you set in the main room. It’s been six weeks

since you deemed us official, five weeks

since Jessica took her last breath and one week

since Ashley took hers. I practice

my pranayama as June exhales her own

trepidation, the damp wind too weighted

to suggest an end to my premature sufferings.

I did not grow up particularly religious, though now

the thought of divine timing brings me comfort, you

their parting gift, an exchange of prospect for braving

privation—a poetry to all of this. We are too drunk

to care about the loose tiling that could render us

floor bound with an unfortunate mouse. If it weren’t for

the nauseating whiffs of Fat Sal’s Deli, this moment

would feel almost immaculate.


Our view of Ronald Reagan Medical Center is completely

unobstructed, its roof vis-à-vis ours as if in standoff. I look at it,

this acclaimed Goliath that once housed Nancy. From where

I am sitting, I can fit its distance between my thumb

and index finger when I cock my hand into a sideways L.

As a helicopter approaches, we feel our last shots of lemon Prestige

triangulate between our chests and touching heads. The chopper lands

like a savoir onto its mothership, and you ask me what I am thinking.


             Maybe they’re transporting an organ I tell you. Maybe it’s a pair of lungs. Maybe


they would have been the perfect fit.

Laura Faith is the author of the YA novel, “Amanda Phake: The First Phake ID”, as well as the poetry collection, “A Convergence, So to Speak”. Her work has appeared in Narrative Magazine and Eunoia Review. She received a BA in French and Francophone Studies from UCLA and an MA in teaching from UC Irvine. Laura teaches English, French, and creative writing to K-12 and college students. Follower her on Instagram and Facebook at @poems_by_laura

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