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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

Corinne Walsh

Poems Without Birds

I dare you to find one that doesn’t

just take off on the wings of words,

a poem

that doesn’t just twitter at the sky.

Poems without birds travel much slower,

step much lower. Their earthbound

aspirations forge a path through

a pathless woods.

Poems without birds

often need us to carry them

and when they find their way into our pockets

we tend to forget about them

until much later

when we find them crumpled

and shrunken in the laundry

deformed after the fact

—newly furrowed and maybe a mystery,

paper roadkill in the lint trap

like the remains of old sales receipts

for things we no longer possess.


Part I

                        I caught her like the Covid virus



                                    with no remedy

            Then I almost died

                                              of her

It started with a stabbing pain      inside my chest

                           from carrying       her around in my heart when she

wanted out

            Pounding      blood

                  like thunder

            Muscles tightening

                      Heart beating



                             Then a flood of silence like the end

but not the end

                             No end came.

                             No end comes,

                                                            only empty stillness

                                                      in long miles of


                                    like sunlight hiding in the high grass

                                                      anticipating            the sunset

                                                      blinded by the golden bands

                                          of outstretched arms

                                                                     reaching but never holding

Then darkness

                           and some things you can

                                                                        not touch

            not even when they get closer

                                                                        Maybe in death

but then the choice is not yours entirely.

Part II

Thinking of her now, still

                                      gives me

                                      ideas.            I remember all things she said

                                             things I thought but never heard before

Her words whispering into my soul

                                       blowing softly      and building strength

                                                            like a hurricane

                                                                                            in her name

                  Her syntax sexes me up

                        I want to get naked with her voice

                  let her crawl inside me like I am a cave

                                    her voice echoing through me

                              melting my mineral darkness

            Her sweet breath      a soothing warmth

dissolving into my cooling skin

                                              She never knows when to stop


she tries to find the truth

                                                      She knows what to do

                                                          and she takes all that I give

                                                                       but I don’t know why

                  Now, she likes to re-tell the story of me

                                    reminding me we are done

                                                                  she tells me I can go

                  but I don’t ever leave

                                                        and only she knows why.


Look it up, search, find abscission.

                          There is a name for everything:

                          Platitude, petiole,

                          Pythagorean Theorem.

                          So many things and so many names.

                          Not long after we are born we learn

everything has a name

                          and we begin to say them,

                          call things by their names to

                          bring them magically to us.

The stem that holds the leafy part to the tree

                          owns the name of petiole.

                          Maybe it doesn’t matter so much the name,

                          until you feel the inexhaustible pull of the world

                          and realize the impossible strength

                          it takes to hold on, and stay connected

                          through the changing seasons and all the changes

                          in the weather: wind and rain, and hurricanes.

A petiole subsists.

Things that make such a difference

                          have names you want to pronounce correctly

                          to teach your children, whom you have named.

                          And when the fall arrives and the petioles

                          take their part in the leaf abscission,

                          we stand in wonder at the changing colors

                          admiring the emptying trees as they

accept their loss almost as if they had a choice.


I will

          follow your








                        I do not

                   need to

                   follow you              flying

                           any longer.

Corinne Walsh earned a Pushcart Prize nomination for short fiction in 2006. Then paused writing to raise her family. The devastating isolation and loss brought on by Covid19 brought poetry back into her life as a magical muse. Her poems have appeared in Abandoned Mine, The Bluebird Word, Acropolis Journal, and Tiny Frights. She is currently working on a full length book of poems.

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