Poetry Winter 2021 fiction all issues
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Cover
Andrej Lišakov
Laura Apol
I Take a Realtor through the House
& other poems
Rebekah Wolman
How I Want my Body Taken
& other poems
Devon Bohm
The Word
& other poems
Gillian Freebody
The Right Kind of Woman
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
Gravestone Flowers
& other poems
Laura Turnbull
Restoration
& other poems
Andre F. Peltier
A Fistful of Ennui
& other poems
Peter Kent
Reflections on the Late Nuclear Attack on Boston
& other poems
Carol Barrett
Canal Poem #8: Hides
& other poems
Alix Lowenthal
Abortion Clinic Waiting Room
& other poems
Latrise P. Johnson
From My Women
& other poems
Brenna Robinson
repurposed
& other poems
may panaguiton
MOON KILLER
& other poems
Elizabeth Farwell
The Life That Scattered
& other poems
Bill Cushing
Two Stairways
& other poems
Richard Baldo
A Note to Prepare You
& other poems
Blake Foster
Aubade from the Coast
& other poems
Bernard Horn
Glamour
& other poems
Harald Edwin Pfeffer
Still stiff with morning cold
& other poems
Nia Feren
Neon Orange Tree Trunks
& other poems
Everett Roberts
A Mourning Performance
& other poems
Alaina Goodrich
The Way I Wander
& other poems
Olivia Dorsey Peacock
the iron maiden and other adornments
& other poems
Laura Turnbull
Restoration
Give me back my summer. I don’t like orange.
Return my aqua, coral, yellow. Let me squeeze
more lemons into sparkly water and spill
foamy waves and oily grit on baby toes. Let me taste
more tomatoes split into stars—I am not hungry
for the dark dirt of soup. Not yet. Let me sweat.
Give me strong thunder from a green warning sky—
five seconds between flash and clap, and cue
curtains to dance. Give me a new pair of sunglasses
and easy hours to lose them. Let me squint at clouds
and blink, and let it still be summer. Cast haint blue
with torches after midnight. Give me more time.
Give me more light. More life. Grant me bright
noisy nights to prove it: seventeen-year-old alarm
clocks, chanting frogs, neighborly cocktails
laced with sharp pink ice. I’m wary of the wiles
of blankets and easy chairs. Give me back the fireflies.
Let them land and stay.
It’s not enough
rondeau
It’s not enough—a house with air.
Invite the dirt, and leave it there.
Emancipate the child’s excess—
all joyful splotches, every mess
in candy-coated disrepair.
Let tiny palms hold worlds, and tear
apart what they’ve assembled. Rare—
these sweetest days, without redress.
It’s not enough.
An instant twinkles past, then where
it travels next, we do not dare
conceive. Inside of our best guess
we breathe our air, we whisper yes,
for one more footprint on the stair—
It’s not enough.
Beats
Authors, it is said, are read,
and writers get paid
(when it’s not pretty).
So, who gets laid?
What can the poets have?
The sound masters
The syntax musicians
The meter-minding
drummers of words?
We raise our hands and
wait to be called on.
Is it always the quiet ones?
I’ll sit with Charlie Watts.
Brains aren’t bones
Here are ways to mend a break:
copy, paste the mistake
and change the rhyme. Everyone:
make past tense present. Convert
liquid to gas. Press the pedal to the floor
if you can reach it. Pull back on the yoke
and fly higher. Crash. Breathe
thin air until it gets dark, unless of course
there’s rain. It can always look like rain.
It might be a good idea to stay broken
for a while longer. Stand in the rain. Watch
for lightning. Wash the wound. Wish.
Brains aren’t bones;
you will heal differently this time.
Afterward
Afterward, feel gross and regret it like you knew you would. Pretend to get a text from a friend. Pretend you’re in a hurry. Forget your keys when you leave. Go back for your keys.
Afterward, pay with the card that earns miles. Buy a bottle of wine. Order a pizza. Eat half of it and go to bed early. Wake up at midnight, sweating. Turn on the overhead light so you can see to change the sheets. Feel better in three days. Don’t tell anyone for almost four years. Never tell your mom.
Afterward, shake hands with the veteran who played taps. Blow your nose with the napkin you found in your glove box. Think about how you never have tissues when you need them. Decide that keeping ashes on the mantel is creepy. Think about how much water humans are made of. Don’t think about heaven.
Afterward, take him to see your new house. Show him his new room. Show him the attic where he can make forts and build Legos. Try not to think about how sad his dad is. Show him the yard and the lemon tree. Take a walk to the ice cream shop. Know he’s trying to be brave. Watch him for signs.
Afterward, meticulously design all the possible outcomes in your head. Settle on one. Wonder why you’re like this.
Laura Turnbull
lives and writes in Berkeley, California where she works in independent school administration. She is deeply grateful for the Sixfold experience and especially for all the kind words and helpful observations from everyone who took time to read and respond. Laura shares some poetry and a blog at lauraturnbull.com. She’s also on Instagram, @short_longhand, and she’d love to meet you there, too.