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Poetry Winter 2018    fiction    all issues


Cover Elena Koycheva

Bryce Emley
Asking Father What’s at the End
& other poems

AJ Powell
& other poems

Faith Shearin
& other poems

Claire Van Winkle
& other poems

Sarah W. Bartlett
Summer Cycles
& other poems

Nooshin Ghanbari
& other poems

Meli Broderick Eaton
The Afterlives of Leaves
& other poems

Jeddie Sophronius
& other poems

Paula Bonnell
In Winter, By Rail
& other poems

Addison Van Auken Waters
& other poems

Daniel Sinderson
& other poems

Andrew Allport
All Nature Will Fable
& other poems

Marte Stuart
What an Insult Time Is
& other poems

Matthew Parsons
My Father as an Inuit Hunter
& other poems

Emily Bauer
Gently, Gently
& other poems

Bruce Marsland
A once lovelorn bard’s final journey
& other poems

Beatrix Bondor
Night Makers
& other poems

Isabella Skovira
Lawless Conservation
& other poems

Juan Pablo González
Colombia, 1928
& other poems

Molly Pines
The Pillbug
& other poems

Jamie Marie
On the Lake
& other poems

William A. Greenfield
If You Show Me Yours
& other poems

Bill Newby
Tuesdays at The Seagate's Atlantic Grille
& other poems

Elder Gideon
Male Initiation Rites
& other poems

Joel Holland
Dear Gi-Gi
& other poems

Martha R. Jones
How Lewis Carroll Met Edgar Allan Poe
& other poems

William A. Greenfield


A tall bad boy

with perfect round holes in his earlobes

she flaunted an intricate butterfly

from shoulder to shoulder

they intertwined like some alien

performing reverse meiosis

hands and arms in a moving and

feeling frenzy that

bordered on public

indecency condemning

them to a future of disappointment

when the thrill of living is gone.

In a booth eating was an

interruption like

a draft that cools the flame

like dinner with family

that torturous imposition that

only serves

to stoke the raging fire

If You Show Me Yours

It’s a game we played when

Bugs and Daffy became passé.

When the best part of the Sears

catalog was no longer Lincoln

Logs and chemistry sets, we

exchanged peach fuzz peeks

behind clapboard garages or

under schoolyard elm trees.

There were rules.

We had to be normal children

just under the curious influence

of estrogen and testosterone.

We had to have working parents

who gave us lunch money and

took us bowling on our birthday.

We had to be mainstreamed

with goals that went beyond

tomorrow’s ride on the small bus.

If we were overtaken by this spell;

If our lustful simplicity suggested

that a clueless child should handle

our ripening fruit, we would

surely be put somewhere.

And, of course, there had to be

an invitation, a furtive glance

from the girl painting her toe

nails on the back porch steps.

Sonder After Dark

I don’t know if this word should find itself in The Dictionary

of Obscure Sorrows, but since the author attempted to write poetry,

I will acquiesce to his definition, although I may not find sorrow

in the face of the retired policeman as he has his last smoke

late at night. Yesterday, he brought home a Table Talk pie

and tried to remember the last time he ate beef.

When I see him at the window, I know I’m not alone.

His life is a simple one; he eats, he plays, he watches

his wife undress. But his thoughts are complicated.

I don’t know why I think this. And here we have the

rub, like when you see the small Mexican man blowing

leaves across the asphalt. How do you explain your

connection to him, your acceptance that he may also be

watching you and wondering if your wife is as beautiful

as his. Mr. Koenig has attempted to “fill a hole in the language.”

There is more work to do, as it seems the hole is ever widening.

The river of emotions runs deep.

The Old Woman Sitting Beneath
a Weeping Willow

I’m certain it was my mother because I

put her there; I guided her down the porch

stairs because her knees could no longer

bear her weight. I gave her this tree on

these grounds so she no longer had to

point out its elegant beauty from the

old red station wagon as we passed

farms and groundhogs along the parkway;

she no longer had to covet the polished

pine and ivy vine she saw in picture books.

I served her sliced strawberries with whipped

cream in the shade while she whimsically

reached for the tears of rain left by an

early morning shower. And I gave her a

dream. She climbs upon a spirited appaloosa

and wraps her arms tightly around

The Marlboro Man, weathered and full

of western bravado. She wants to pen

a romance novel about the cowboy of

her other dreams, the one who sings to her

on AM radio. She sings to herself now,

beneath this tree of wisdom. She sings

the same song she sang to me as a child,

when I thought she would, one day, have

her own porch to laze upon, her own

horse to feed sugar cubes to, and maybe

a cowboy to share her dreams with.

William A. Greenfield is a youth advocate worker and a fairly good poker player. He resides in Liberty, NY, with his wife, son, and a dog. His poems have appeared in dozens of journals, including The Westchester Review, Tar River Poetry, and many others. In 2012, he won Storyteller Magazine’s People’s Choice award. He was a finalist in The New Guard Literary Review’s 2016 Knightville Poetry Contest. His chapbook, “Momma’s Boy Gone Bad”, was published in February 2017 by Finishing Line Press.

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