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Poetry Summer 2023    fiction    all issues


Joel Filipe

Kristina Cecka
& other poems

Gillian Freebody
The Uncivil War of Love
& other poems

LuAnn Keener-Mikenas
Skunks at Twilight
& other poems

Alyssa Sego
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Forest of One
& other poems

Brent M. Foster
Ode to Darwin
& other poems

Jack Giaour
trans man is feeling blue
& other poems

Alan Gann
how strange
& other poems

Richard Baldo
The Privilege
& other poems

Michael Fleming
& other poems

Holly York
As it turned out, there was no bomb on board
& other poems

Celeste Briefs
Late Poppies
& other poems

Kayla E.L. Ybarra
Goose Song
& other poems

S.E. Ingraham
Leaving to Arrive
& other poems

Rachel Robb
Molting Scarlet Tanager
& other poems

Bruce Marsland
Sauna by a Finnish lake at Midsummer
& other poems

Ellen Romano
Seven Sisters
& other poems

Greg Hart
False Coordinates
& other poems

Greg Tuleja
& other poems

Corinne Walsh
Southern Charm
& other poems

Writer's Site

Jack Giaour


as i take his words into my mouth i am glad for their taste

glad they have been released and given to me

             in the interval in the seconds between his texts

             i have time to think of a fruit in a dream garden

the serpent no longer has license to strike

the tree sheds its leaves with almost joy makes a carpet over the parking lot

             he says that i am desirable

             that i am handsome in the office light

i want to make a fruit from the pulp of a nail

the last leaf shivers and falls

             it is frightening to offer myself to the tree to the fruit

             it is frightening to swing the burning sword he says

and though his body is full of seeds and mine is full of shells and discarded skins

we are compatible

             i taste of the fruit but i don’t know if i like it

             or if it reminds me of the bones he crunches on sometimes when we’re watching netflix

i don’t mind the bones but i like much more the residues

the warm inner marrow

             he wants to make a coin from the juice of the fruit

             it’s commerce he says that is the only infinite

they were right about the wind

it’s sharp and seems to carry something that it shouldn’t

             the snow is worse than the sun

             the trees seem almost gold in the early morning light

the snow is worse than the sun but somehow i’m drawn to it

drawn to the glint of black ice by the roadside

             i dream for this

             a natural enclosure a world inside a word

has our knowledge made us free                          /?/

and when they finally call my number do i bring water or

             a portrait or a curtain or a bridge

             or a conclusion              /?/

to hang up our lights is always a project

there’s just no place to plug them in

             i am always thinking of light and time and the flashing of the messages on my screen

             you cannot accuse me of inattention

i no longer have license to drive and the decision to forego renewal for so long

has consequences

             clusters of possibilities whiz through our heads he says

             electric charges clogged with coffee grounds and brain bits

the fruit is so easy to bring to the mouth

to seize with eager lips

             he says we go to the tree with equal needs

             which honestly is bullshit

we are in the habit of him on top of me of tasting and teasing

at the residual flesh


             only an animal could be so

the holy angel dashes the snake against a wall

quietly tastes of the fruit we have rejected

             these are old photos he says because there’s nothing else to say

             it’s so hard to think of her as me

a new license means a new picture a chance to more officially be the he that is really me

and so i do my best to be myself as it were and questions are easy to answer

                          but mistakes are hard to right

wet dream with lord byron

i answer you and it rends me like old silk

             you take me through each room

your tears red then turning slowly the color of silk

             do you know why you dream of marrow        ?

that’s what you asked me in the long dark after sex

             i survived birth

but i failed in my need

             my hunger for stamens licked clean

when the long dark came you worked me

             so roughly between your grey fingers

you asked how else can you beg under the red

             silk buckle and heave of my need                                ?

rockport sunrise

nothing for us in the morning but the smear of fog bank

             against the pure sky-shift of sunrise

i heard the sunlight grating against the rooftops

             one morning this sound won’t bother me

but this morning it did and you were there

             clutching at the roots of the ocean

when i read to you last night i was listening for the

             rustlings of your blood in the ugly pinking veins of your eyes

i shouldn’t have spoken to you

             you didn’t know how drunk i was you didn’t know

but you got into my bed anyway we read to each

             other anyway and believed this is what delight is

like what the morning is just before sunrise

             sky and sea are pinking but they’re never quite the same color

as the fog

Jack Giaour’s (he/him/his) poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Sonora Review, Albatross Magazine, and Poetry South, among other journals. He holds an MFA from Chapman University, was a writer-in-residence at the Belgrade Art Studio in Belgrade, Serbia, and has volunteered with both Mass Poetry and the Salem Arts Festival. He sunlights as software manager for a steel fabricator just north of Boston.

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