Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Winter 2022    fiction    all issues


Li Zhang

Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems

Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems

Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems

Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems

Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems

Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems

Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems

David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems

George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems

Mary Keating
& other poems

Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems

Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems

David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems

Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems

Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems

Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems

Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems

Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems

Meg Whelan
& other poems

Katherine B. Arthaud
& other poems

Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems

Holly Cian
& other poems

Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems

Steven Monte
& other poems

Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems

Kristina Cecka

On Remodeling

I want a carpenter. No, not

Jesus. He’s too busy for house calls.

But someone like him, with miracle hands.

I need a bookcase built. I want it to be made of

white birch, sanded until it gleams,

painted with dark vines; all thorns, no flowers.

What else? The roof. The broken shingles

let in the rain and the damn squirrels, and let

out warmth, light, hope.

My foot needs to be looked at, too. It trembles

when I least expect. I’ll take a stopgap in the meantime,

a book tucked under it to steady me, but

I want its replacement to be wood,

the hard kind—camelthorn or black

ironwood or quebracho, to finally make me sturdy.

My teeth need to blunted, of course. Too many

sharp edges. Baby-proof them. Sand them.

Build an iron cage around my mouth.

The spine’s more difficult. I want it straightened

from its strange, uncomfortable bell-curve,

hammered until it finally lays unbroken and proud.

The long-term project is unknotting the mess of my gut—

that cramped, tangled worm gnawed through by those twin vultures:

worry and anguish. Be patient. Be

kind or it will get worse. It will take time.

It will get your hands dirty.

Lastly, the ribs. String up fairy lights in the hollows between each

vulnerable bone, illuminating all those dark spaces—

the wing-spread lungs, the thrumming heart: still beating, beating, beating.

Kristina Cecka received her B.A. in English and Creative Writing from the University of Iowa. After several years living overseas, she returned to her hometown in Minneapolis, MN, where she now lives with her two cats and a ridiculous amount of books. Her publication in Sixfold will be her first time being published.

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