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Poetry Winter 2023    fiction    all issues


Susan Wilkinson

Selena Spier
Red From The West
& other poems

Pamela Wax
Talk Therapy
& other poems

Ana Reisens
Honey Water
& other poems

Mark Yakich
Necessary Hope
& other poems

Bridget Kriner
A Few Lies & a Truth
& other poems

Keegan Shepherd
Silver Queen
& other poems

Alaina Goodrich
Sacred Conflagration
& other poems

George Longenecker
Those Who Hunger
& other poems

Hailey Young
Ball Room
& other poems

Sébastien Luc Butler
& other poems

Savannah Grant
Ever Since (v.2)
& other poems

grace (logan)
& other poems

Samantha Imperi
A Poem for the Ghosted
& other poems

Corinne Walsh
& other poems

Kayla Heinze
Stop checking the score
& other poems

Richard Baldo
Chasing Through to Dawn
& other poems

Alex Eve
A moment
& other poems

Robert Michael Oliver
Prison Hounds
& other poems

Writer's Site

Sébastien Luc Butler


smell of almost rain                       dust

green wood                    lightning bug

pining above      flotsam pollen

spooling             in the river

sphinx moth      nuzzles                 foxglove’s

speckled interior           i didn’t know

i was real           before you touched me

the storm comes            rain

a path of memory          so deep

it hardly resembles       memory

the veins in your eyes   when you looked at me

the first time     before

words                 to witness

before one          knows how


i am a poor witness        out walking at night

when streets dream                    only

of themselves   broadside           of a farmhouse

white paint       scuffed               as the bar of soap

i sometimes get to wash you with            your valleys

hard      then soft           more often

it’s my own hand            running across

my skin             trying

to figure yours                the night is cold

enough for snow             but

there is no snow              the wet tips

of my hair         harden              crinkle

like the dead grass          dawn   is impossibly

far         & its song          of you

proper stage for my lament        since when

did i assume      it worked that way

 during              is so short

& ever


Mornings I balk

awake into aubade. Default

mode: entropy in green

& blue. My blues, my love,

without you, filling out

an ocean. What’s new?

An ocean in your touch.

Your skin’s salt-lick, briny

caper of days you come

to visit. Diver’s bends

in the blood, I wave-

break against your back’s

mussel-pink muscles, your

spine’s rosemary rosary,

the rosary your name

makes my throat, tide-pool

of wet flame. Outside,

sap suckers pepper

cedar’s bearded bark

for each nectar-sleeve, crepe

myrtle shatters itself

over red earth. Months I forget

to be with you, long

longing of watching pasta water

wait to boil while cooking

for one yet again,

thinking how

after slow dancing

we picked bits of thyme

from between our teeth.


crows gather       vortex   in hundreds

the leafless tops of trees              scavenging

wind                    how i wish i could say

it’s nothing like hitchcock made them

that would be a lie         i don’t know

what they bring             other than

another winter               without you

a selfishness        i have no defense for

it’s said crow memory    is so strong

it could count in a defense trial

they remember               all who were cruel

who showed grace          some claim

they can even learn to speak       i turn

to say                  as if you’d be there

winter without you        i know that song

play it again        if you remember how


i’ve been reading too much          charles wright

i take a walk                   expect a poem

just as somehow             i expect you

as if       i were owed you              owed

the starlings      again their ring

around the rosey            their dusk

coronation         sweet    murmuration

no poem             just a line—

once in a stark turn       sun splashed

their understory            alark

into a thousand eyelashes

who would believe me    if i said

i’d seen your eyes           just so   in bed

a private history            we’re consigned to

precious falsehoods       we bought

will never return            just like a poem

i feel you            above my left eyebrow

invisible shard               in which there’s light

Sébastien Luc Butler holds an MFA from the University of Virginia. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming from Narrative Magazine, Pleiades, Black Warrior Review, Southeast Review, the minnesota review, Four Way Review, and elsewhere. The recipient of the 2021 Hopwood Award, and a finalist for the 2023 Black Warrior Review Poetry Contest, his writing can be found at Fifty Grande, Foreword Reviews, and West Trade Review. Hailing from Michigan, he resides in Brooklyn.

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