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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

Writer's Site

Krystle May Statler

to the slow burn

what part of he’s dead don’t I understand

despite holding four boxes of his smile

in a city that returns to its everydayness

over and over and over, the reaping repeats itself

as sirens echo like hunting crows

under a dangerous sun, we can’t slow the clouds

blanketing bodies before a body burns

by time or by fire or both without cause

and who’s left lies about surviving

because we don’t know if the moment

the bullet catches dura mater in a brain

is when the soul escapes a body or

when it can no longer listen to the crying

come back home big brother, please, come—

can’t the ocean swallow “God’s plan”

and eddy grief instead of haunting

a home where vaulted ceilings

make more space for ghosts?

then rain comes and an honest rage

rages after learning he was unarmed

but brother is still dead

while the murderous officer continues to work and breathe

and breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and breathe

in Inglewood with a holster of smoke

I see brother’s body in my dreams

with alive eyes like in aged photographs

playing on the gravel of a playplace

when everything we wanted wasn’t a thing

but a who, with arms to hug back

as we laughed our I love you’s on a yellow bench


I’m unremarkable

in my recent hair

loss. I have

dates on my

calendar for

crying. I do this

between my

7-4. Hell?

Help, I’m

angrier than

I seem. I’m a

bullet in a temple.

Please tell

my mother

I’m tired of

forgiving. Her

denial of loss

is gruesome like

a grieving

mother. At

the mortuary,

a stranger

hugged me like

a mother. Please,

no, I hugged her

back. Is it easier

to daughter

from afar?

I fight relapse

then kiss

a purple unicorn

urn. One photo

shows a family

before the

lacerated mess.

Brother, please

show a sign

you’re still here.

My memories are

losing blood.

Krystle May Statler (she/her) is a Black-multiracial artist living in Portland, OR. Her works are featured in Poetry From Instructions,, 1455’s Movable Type, The Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, and Cultural Weekly. More of her poetry will be featured in Fourteen Hills, Suburbia Journal, Sepia Quarterly, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Krystle’s debut poetic-visual hybrid, Losing Blood, was a finalist for the 2022 CRAFT Hybrid Writing Contest & the 2021 CAAPP Book Prize.

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