Poetry Winter 2019 fiction all issues
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Cover Florian Klauer
Meli Broderick Eaton
Three Mississippi
& other poems
Andrea Reisenauer
What quiet ache do you wear?
& other poems
Alex Wasalinko
Two Dreams of Vegas
& other poems
AJ Powell
The Grammar Between Us
& other poems
Emma Flattery
Our Shared Jungle, Mr. Conrad
& other poems
Nathaniel Cairney
The Desert Cometh
& other poems
Sarah W. Bartlett
Unexpected
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
Jaybird by the Fence
& other poems
Brandon Hansen
Bradley
& other poems
Andy Kerstetter
The Inferno Lessons
& other poems
Michael Fleming
Space Walk
& other poems
Richard Cole
Perfect Corporations
& other poems
Susan Bouchard
Circus Performers
& other poems
Edward Garvey
Nine Songs of Love
& other poems
Mehrnaz Sokhansanj
Sea of Detachment
& other poems
Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius
Aftershock
& other poems
Claudia Skutar
Homage II
& other poems
Donna French McArdle
Knitting Sample
& other poems
Megan Skelly
Puzzle Box Ghazal
& other poems
Tess Cooper
Charged
& other poems
Greg Tuleja
Auschwitz
& other poems
Catherine R. Cryan
Raven
& other poems
Susan Bouchard
An Apology To My Best Friend
I didn’t mean to take your dress
But you know you are too much for me
All that confidence that you wear
It’s so theatrical.
You command attention and
I wanted a chance at that
Let me show you—teach you, you said
But I knew you didn’t mean that
You really like your power over me
And I succumb to your strength
(And my jealousy)
So while you were working and I was waiting
At your apartment
I tried on your wispy light blue dress
The one that follows you in folds so unnaturally perfect
I can never tell if you move the dress or the dress moves you.
I thought the dress would transform me into you
It zipped up so smoothly and I was hopeful
Even my stomach fluttered for a moment
Your skin on me might make all the difference
But my insecurities leaked right through your dress
And changed it.
It was not like a new skin on me
My skin is too thin, too translucent, to be yours
I knew I would end up infecting your precious dress
(But I hoped I wouldn’t)
And I didn’t mean to crunch your dress into a ball
And stuff it in my purse
I planned to have it cleaned and return it on another day
When you were working.
But the stains didn’t come out and
I couldn’t tell you about the damage
(You know how you love your clothes)
So I brought your blue dress home
And I promise I only wear it occasionally
Just on days when I’m trying to be hopeful
But now it looks more like me and less like you.
It doesn’t smell like you anymore
Your scent of pure, fresh wash
Is completely gone
(I loved that scent) but
I sat on my couch in your dress and
Tucked my knees to my stomach and wrapped myself in your skin
And hugged you, along with my knees, and
Covered my legs in all that blue
Taking deep sniffs and for a while, I held you inside.
I should have paced myself
But you know how impulsive I am
So I wasn’t able to preserve you in your dress
And I can’t talk to you anymore
Because I stole your dress
And its seams are fraying and the hem is uneven
And it smells like burnt toast and buttered popcorn
My scent overpowered yours (I didn’t know I could do that)
So I can’t even return it to you.
I thought I could be you in your dress
And maybe you would be me, just for a bit
While I learned how to be you
So I could someday be me.
(Sorry)
The Space Between
You live in the spaces between my words
Where I often hover,
Tiptoeing in the inky shadows
To take a quick breath and
Whisper my fears.
I know I will find you in those spaces
You are not the words in my poem
but the hand that guides me,
No, pushes me,
Onto my next word.
Why I Don’t Like Meeting
Famous People
I once rode in an elevator in Bloomingdale’s with
A famous actor that I’ve seen (and lusted after) in many films
Suddenly, it’s just the two of us in a small, moveable metal box and
No one’s escaping until the third floor.
I wish I hadn’t run to catch the elevator, but
Just as the doors were closing
I saw an arm reach for the button panel
The doors slid open and I slid in.
I knew immediately who he was.
He smiled because he knew I knew
And this was his lot in life
People knew him.
I am disappointed immediately.
Why didn’t I just ride the escalator, I think
But all that silver closes me in
And up we go.
I try not to make eye contact
But do my fair share of peeking to the left.
I note that his skin isn’t flawless in person
He looks much younger on film.
I’m also disappointed by his choice of clothes
He’s slighter than I imagined and his hair sparse.
So this is he in ordinary life
He’s so . . . ordinary.
I stare at the button display and hope for someone else to join us.
But no, we are alone and
He smiles and says hello.
I don’t answer.
Does he want me to request an autograph?
I can’t do that; I don’t want one
Does he expect a reply, a simple hello
Or does he recognize my disappointment.
I want to tell him that
I’ve met other famous people
Right here in Bloomingdale’s and I am not
Star-struck by that fact or by him.
I am simply embarrassed for him
And his inability to translate from big screen to real life
And I am reminded of how people, in your life and out of it,
Don’t always live up to expectations.
And just as I’ve given up reading biographies
Where I learn more than I want to know,
I promise myself I will never ride the elevator in Bloomingdale’s again.
I don’t always like the truth.
Circus Performers
She says we have become circus performers, but I wonder,
Have we always been circus performers
Just waiting for our moment,
Perfecting our talents in secret while
Living our ordinary lives in open spaces?
Is this really who we are now or
Has the inside merely wiggled its way out,
Is it too late to join an act and
Perfect our dreams in open spaces while
Living our ordinary lives in private?
She says we have taken our show on the road
As we tentatively walk tightropes,
You balancing song sheets and guitars
Me twisting tales into shape
You sing your words; I write mine.
We load our car with microphones and music stands
Books and binders filled with words and sounds
Juggling through performances with
Ice cold hands (you) and sweaty palms (me)
A double trapeze act concealing our fears and
Embracing the risks.
Word Shredder
I rip words.
Cut them with precision
Every tentative one with the
Audacity to find its way onto paper
Ends up shredded like alphabet pieces
Original Gutenberg metal blocks
Out of order in an old tin container.
I store the shredding in file boxes.
Plan to arrange them someday
Put my (your) life in order
Alpha to omega
Vowels and consonants
Press the alphabet into compliance and
Bundle words into thoughts.
And you, you write in a font different than mine,
So even shredded, I know you from me and
Can rearrange you into my version of you
I write your story
Force you to say what I want you to say
Manipulate you like wooden
Scrabble pieces.
I am printer, designer, storyteller.
Use my power to reform words
Art crafting life
Cast you into my story
Assemble our fonts
Free you from my patchwork puzzle and
Give you life on a page.
But for now, I am satisfied collecting you.
Incising your dialogue into tiny pieces and
Printing your words in a size smaller than mine
So when I reach into the file and pull out segments
Of Helvetica (me) and Comic Sans (you)
I hold within me all the possibilities to
Reprint (our) history as I intend it.
Susan Bouchard
grew up in Manhattan and the Bronx and currently lives in Westchester County. She is a teacher and a member of the Westchester Poetry Caravan, reading her work to those who might not otherwise have the chance to experience poetry. Susan says that in everyday life she is a rule follower, but, through her narrators, finds her rebellious voice. When not writing, Susan enjoys listening to live music and polishing her nails.