Poetry Winter 2013 fiction all issues
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Alysse Kathleen McCanna
Pentimento
& other poems
Peter Nash
Shooting Star
& other poems
Katherine Smith
House of Cards
& other poems
David Sloan
On the Rocks
& other poems
Alexandra Smyth
Exoskeleton Blues
& other poems
John Glowney
The Bus Stop Outside Ajax Bail Bonds
& other poems
Andrea Jurjević O’Rourke
It Was a Large Wardrobe...
& other poems
Lisa DeSiro
Babel Tree
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Reptiles
& other poems
Michael Berkowitz
As regards the tattoo on your wrist
& other poems
Michael Brokos
Landscape without Rest
& other poems
Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
& other poems
John Wentworth
morning people
& other poems
Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
& other poems
Catherine Dierker
dinner party
& other poems
William Doreski
Hate the Sinner, Not the Sin
& other poems
Robert Barasch
Loons
& other poems
Rande Mack
bear
& other poems
Susan Marie Powers
Red Bird
& other poems
Anne Graue
Sky
& other poems
Mariah Blankenship
Tub Restoration
& other poems
Paul R. Davis
Landscape
& other poems
Philip Jackey
Garage drinking after 1989
& other poems
Karen Hoy
A Naturalist in New York
& other poems
Gary Sokolow
Underworld Goddess
& other poems
Michal Mechlovitz
The Early
& other poems
Henry Graziano
Last Apple
& other poems
Stephanie L. Harper
Unvoiced
& other poems
Roger Desy
anhinga
& other poems
R. G. Evans
Hangoverman
& other poems
Frederick L. Shiels
Driving Past the Oliver House
& other poems
Richard Sime
Berry Eater
& other poems
Jennifer Popoli
Generations in a wine dark sea
& other poems
Double Exposure
Dad rattles into the family room,
groans down in his big yellow chair.
Trying to focus warped vision on the album,
he puzzles over the faces.
Our first time canoeing through Bull Sluice:
we broke a paddle, nearly wrapped the boat,
rammed the bank, snagged roots.
We both nursed an ice-cold Murphy’s stout.
Dad, all smiles, pointing to his beer, me dripping dry
in a spring sun that set almost forty years ago.
A camera flash:
I’m an old man in a new photograph.
Love and Waffle Fries
We rehearse The Tempest,
conjure fresh magic
from five hundred year old prose.
Reciting our lines into a mantra,
more than mere meter and verse,
an ancient incantation,
a transmutation of flesh—
we are Miranda and Ferdinand.
Two sparks fanned into an inferno,
hormones racing at light speed,
devouring the last of childhood,
unstoppable.
You are the girl with a half-pulled
zipper on her bedroom ceiling.
One side of the painting a gold
stripe running from the edge of the wall
to the center of the room, a detailed
rendition. From here the mural
opens to reveal a wedge of jet-black
sky filled with glow-in-the-dark planets,
whirling galaxies, shooting stars.
As with most art, and with all girls,
I’m not sure what to think.
The mural poses several questions,
although for a teenage boy,
only one question matters—
is that zipper half open?
Nick’s
I.
A last game break cracks,
squeaking chalk pivots
on custom pool sticks.
Stripe and solid scatter,
race for soft edges, batter
each other’s tangents,
bump cushion,
slow-roll
stop.
One player props against a stool,
re-lights a Marlboro.
Another coolly stalks the green slate field,
calling his next best shot.
In a corner, a couple seeks distance.
She sits erect listening, staring
at the floor. He sidles into her gaze, reaching
for her shoulder, she jerks away—two hearts
in a Gordian knot.
Co-eds help a birthday friend giggle home.
Their waitress fills a tray with empty bottles,
(one stuffed with a carefully peeled label),
wipes her once white rag across the tabletop,
pockets the ten—hard-won milk-money.
A Miller man sits at the bar sweet-talking
the dirty ash tray, picks at a half-dozen cold
hot wings. Across the thin room, a plain woman
locks his copper eyes—smiles him over
for a few quick shots. He holds open
her black leather coat—
they trickle toward the side door.
Santana wails, in stereo:
. . . tryin’ to make a devil out of me.
II.
Under a fog comforter
good mornings are exchanged
in half-tone light.
Fingers grope
a plastic coffee spoon,
double-sweeten instant.
Nothing is promised, nor expected.
I fasten an out-of-town tie,
snick the door locked.
Outside, two tentative song birds
call mates. A neon sign buzzes:
vacancy.
Christopher Jelley
was born in Welwyn Garden City, England. Emigrating to Atlanta in 1968, he studied journalism at Georgia State University. Jelley has written scripts for instructional and travel videos, and commercials. His work most recently appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume V: Georgia.