Poetry Summer 2022 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Lauren Fulton
Birth Marks
Temple
I am too faded // but for the most intimate / appraiser // diminished // by time / disguised by age // the small divot / slight darkening / a pox on the delicate / child’s body //
Pale skin dotted pink / tumble down a fever dream / delirium of bright wax colors // masterpiece of innocence / quickly painted over // I am the original sin / bittersweet apple / fangs through protective flesh / swallowing the sweetness / abandoning the core / the bite / of disconnection //
I am a phantom of touch // search for relief // scar of primordial need.
Carpus I
Below the fold / where wrist meets palm // twisted cross / bird in flight // scrape of metal on skin // imperfect / catch to a fall //
Fleeing grandmother’s hospital bed // her scarred flattened chest the family birthright // four stitches // one for each of the child’s years //
Doctor sewing skinned / bodies back together // mother sobbing between gasping mother / screaming daughter // grief upon grief / upon grief.
Genuflect
A patchwork on both knees // we are legion for we are many // bite of gravel // lightning bolt nerves on curbs // long slow ache on pews //
Blood / bone / stone / branch / dirt / sand // patella lodging pain / fearlessness / girlhood safety // discovering all pleasures have their limits //
An exorcism of innocence // boy child racing bicycles / becoming girl child chased / learning protection / means cover / shrink / hide //
freedom driven out / of the body and off the cliff // in a scrape of blood and dust.
Achilles
A needle and a lighter / adolescent attraction to the sharp and the hot // discovery that pain can be desire // can be communion //
I am the etch of initials into ankles // symbols onto thighs / soft touch of a girl’s hand // the soothe before the sear //
Learning to bite cheeks // to hold inside the agony / of the burn // to look with love / into eyes // while hands make visible / the ache.
Carpus II
I am the attempt at symmetry / at remembering // of turning accident to intention // I am the small x on the other wrist // the cold metal / blade a mother’s gift / a lesson / in reining in / the unruly / the unsightly //
Easy after so many effortless nicks on knees // now with a quick flick of a scarred wrist // a fledgling cry / blood in bath / flood of fear / arousal of power / apprehension of depth //
Wrists pressed together / flight of two doves // parent/child, lover/beloved, memory/imagination.
Bridge
Black rubber burned into intersection // skull thump on dash // funeral program crushed in pale knuckles // screams from the backseat // car full of black-clad teenagers blindsided / by grief //
Another friend lost to another car / garage parked / suburban idling // Flashing lights and sirens / the ferryman chaperone // from one death to another //
I am the dull thud / the quirk in the eyebrow // I am the mark of the beast / I am the permanent witness / to bereaved mothers // burying their faces // in the rent garments of their children.
Pelt
A congregation of cells // supposed to be dispersed // on the skin // malignancy / in waiting //
Sentinels guarding crease of thigh / valley of breasts / nape of neck // bulwark of the body’s own making // paladin of purity / that terrible angel //
Removal a benediction / now I am who am // trinity of steepled scars // chambered echoes of stitch / and staple / of shame / both excised / and etched into / the body.
Extremity/Pointer
Lonely celebration // wine bottle spiral // no corkscrew / but // resourcefulness / recklessness // in abundance // a deep / scissor slice to forefinger //
Blood dashing / on graduation gown / clear cut to tendon / mechanics of a body bared //
Close call / not the first / not the last // expletive of luck luck luck //
I am the revelation / of the father / in the daughter // inheritance of affliction / calamity in the veins // a patrimony of self-destruction.
Umbilicus
I am the feline / striped witness / to motherhood // flanking the knotted depression / in the belly // legacy of the matriarchy //
I am the leanness / I am the swelling / the pain and / pleasure of fullness // of emptiness //
I am the presence of mothers past // passed to their babies // the gut of their own lives // their own //
Scarification.
Exit Interview
When I asked my mother to explain
mammogram she said
imagine all you were told was beauty
pressed to dust in a pill
you’ll choke to swallow.
When I asked my mother to explain
biopsy she said
an interrogation at needlepoint -
all the body’s secrets laid bare
under bright lights.
When I asked my mother to explain
chemo she said
When you kill parts of yourself,
even the ones you want to die,
you can’t help but be sick with the loss.
When I asked my mother to explain
radiation she said
remember Rich said, “your wounds come
from the same source as your power”
and there is no cure for either, only exposure.
When I asked my mother to explain
hair loss she said
when you spend your life wearing
a crown of thorns and honey
there is relief in the tender touch of a silk scarf.
When I asked my mother to explain
scar she said
even a leaf leaves a mark on a tree when it falls.
Does the oak mourn the damage done, or
stretch its limbs and grow something new?
When I asked my mother to explain
prosthesis she said
sometimes we put things on for the comfort
of others and sometimes their comfort
becomes our own.
When I asked my mother to explain
remission she said
every day the sacrament on my tongue,
an absolution, a benediction
another lifetime with you.
When I asked my mother to explain
relapse she said
it is a slipping into waters already swum
back to the cardinal element
held by the crystal light of the moon.
When I ask my mother to explain
goodbye she says
nothing, only slides the skin of her liminal fingers
against the vein of my hand, my inheritance
and presses precisely, tenderly, the terrified pulse she finds there.
Springboard
Before the toe dipped
into deeper ends and before
the deck-smack of wet steps,
dampened feet getting colder
each metal rung up the ladder,
before heels hold the wobbling
body to the board, before
the arch before the sigh before
breath
before splash and sting
of water-slapped skin before
the body bubbling to surface, gulping
lungs clung to sides of safety—
There is the gasp, the shivery snap,
clammy shell of a still-sodden suit
pulled over goose-pimpled skin
prickling apprehension, there
is the glance at eyes, familiar,
older crinkled slant of some wonder
unfathomed until long later, and now
satisfied someone is watching, dry
docked feet walk, wrinkling
toward the after.
Claws
Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.
—David Foster Wallace
Let go and let god, your dad
used to say, but you hold on
the same way that he did.
Bits left under beds of by-
gones left in shreds, a holding
pattern repeated.
As long as you live I will grow,
and so will the slivers
of memory you cling to.
Bodies I’ve gashed, every
bit of your past, careful—
I’ll also slice you.
Claws deliver to fangs
who devour, your hunger
pangs finally sated,
By violence wrought
against instinct, caught in
affections I have abraded.
Paint me red and pretend,
possession can lend beauty,
and what it grows into.
Blades made by your cells,
forensics that tell the dead
stories you’ve finally lived through.
Lauren Fulton
is a queer, single mom and writer of poetry, fiction and essays. Born and raised in Florida, she now lives in Portland, Oregon. She loves naps, public libraries, cooking, and she really misses traveling. Follow her twitter @laurenfulton21.