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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

Ana Reisens

Honey water

Our lives change in the simplest of ways.

A butterfly, perched on the trellis.

I let it climb onto my finger,

carry it out of the rain.

A paper towel, damp with honey.

A carefully plucked flower.

It sips sweetness with its infinite

tongue as I write, each of us

learning each other’s beauty.

The sun stretches.

The windmill stills.

I carry it back outside,

watch its wings blink

and unfold.

When it finally leaps into the sky

it takes three laps around me:

one for honey, one for rain,

one for flowers, each

a different form of wonder.


Climb with me into the river-wide arms of

the apple tree in May, when the chickadees

pick possibilities from the blossoms and the

bullfrogs call like foghorns across the pond.

We’ll wrap our arms around each other’s

branches and talk about the rain and whether

it’ll ever fall, the way the caterpillars cling

to the ridges of the reeds, how thoroughly

the black-winged kites sweep the sky. We’ll

eat sandwiches packed with our mothers’

memories and laugh at every passing bee, every

wish-shaped cloud, how the sheep leap over

the neighbor’s fence and the gray collie

lies sleeping beneath the willows.

Maybe, you’ll say, there’s more to us

than skin and bark, but a bullfrog will cut in

with a croak that sounds like home

and we’ll lean back and wonder where

the damselflies go after sunset. Later

I might agree that maybe there is more,

that perhaps all of us are just ripples

across a pond. Perhaps the damselflies

are the refractions of stars and we’re all

just fractions, which means nothing

is ever as bad as it seems, is it?

The little mouse skips between

the dipping blades of grass

and the adder still hasn’t caught it.

The sheep graze. The collie stirs.

The fields ruffle as we pass hope

back and forth between branches

like notes, like apples, like rain.

The daffodils, the melody, the rain

Who we really are is


the whistling green hills,

the silken sea foam.

The rain that gathers

beneath the streetlamps

in silver streams,

the leaves.

We are everything

that has ever been touched

by the sun and everything

that has not: the grass

and stones, the daffodils

and wingbeats.

We are silence

and whispers

and birdsong

all at once,

the blissful beating

of a distant drum.

Ana Reisens is an emerging poet and writer, and you can find her work in The Bombay Literary Magazine, The Dry River Review, and Channel, among other places. She was a special mention for the 2023 Kari Ann Flickinger Memorial Prize for a chapbook and the winner of the 2020 Blue Earth Review poetry contest. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

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