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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

Alex Eve


Save a ladder against the wall,

A candle perched upon a rung,

Save a distant magpie’s squall,

The room was empty,

It held no one.

Save three drawers, three doors,

The radiator pipes that sing.

Save some time—a gentle pause,

The room was empty,

It held nothing.

Save six panes along one edge,

And myself with memories some,

Save my secret, vital pledge,

The room was empty,

It held no one.

Save these things that I have said

—and some paint around the rim.

Save the wooden double bed,

The room was empty,

Yet held something.

A Moment

The wood let out a gentle sigh of smoke,

             Which inched out and into the air.

It’s tail still held by the log’s blackened maw,

             Flanked by white, chipped teeth.

The sigh began to twist and twirl and snake,

             Ever rising upwards, until it wriggled free.

It knotted up—vermicular,

             And teased apart, again and again,

Until its form flattened, faded, withered,

             Dispersed upon the winds,

As a dwindling grey zephyr.

             A gasp.

                          A sigh.

First Impressions


I remember that night

You stood there, glassy-eyed

Wearing a look I’ve not seen before

Or since

A look of curiosity

Of intrigue

Of delight

Like I was a puzzle

You couldn’t wait to solve

Turning on your heels

You headed back to the crowd

And disappeared in the throng

Leaving me puzzled

About you

The Middle Place

Behind me, yesterday’s full moon hangs festive,

Bathing the buildings and trees,

In faint, gentle memory.

The future lies before me,

Concealed by shadows cast by tomorrow’s sun,

As it rises from behind the hill.

I urge to turn towards that familiar moon,

Which, now, is quickly dimming into obscurity,

and vagueness.

But the long grasses are blown over,

Like abatises,

As if to discourage retreat into nostalgia.

I can see tomorrow clearer now;

Some features on the bank illuminated by tomorrow’s sun,

And as I approach, it becomes now.

You Are the Sun

You are the Sun,

Whom everybody loves,

Bringing joy and warmth and light.

I, too, love your rays on my skin,

And am sad to watch you go, each night.

But, sometimes, it gets too much for You.

For, although you’re the biggest thing to me,

The Universe exerts even bigger forces on you,

Invisible and ominous,

Beyond my comprehension.

Such cosmic pressures tear away your skin,

And I see Your truth.

A rush of unbearable heat,

Causes my skin to boil, burn, blister.

Too hot to bear.

I plead for You to stop,

To shield me from the radiation,

That pours from Your core.

Like bug bites, like bullets,

No, like cannonballs.

When I show others,

My damaged skin, barely healing,

They only remark how,

You bring them warmth, not pain,

Nothing nuclear.

I know, someday,

Your fire will consume me,

Because, some days,

The worlds don’t revolve,

Around You.

Alex Eve trained as a research scientist and now works in the academic publishing industry. Based near Cambridge, UK, he writes as a form of therapy. His poetry is about secrets; things desperate to be communicated but must remain unsaid.

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