Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Fall 2013    fiction    all issues


Chris Joyner
Wrestlemania III
& other poems

Carey Russell
Visiting Hours
& other poems

Marc Pietrzykowski
Cabinet of Wonders
& other poems

Jonathan Travelstead
Prayer of the K-12
& other poems

Jennifer Lowers Warren
Our Daughter's Skin
& other poems

Jeff Burt
The Mapmaker's Legend
& other poems

Patricia Percival
Giving in to What If
& other poems

Toni Hanner
& other poems

Christopher Dulaney
& other poems

Suzanne Burns
Window Shopping
& other poems

Katherine Smith
Mountain Lion
& other poems

Peter Kent
Surliness in the Green Mountains
& other poems

William Doreski
Gathering Sea Lavender
& other poems

Huso Liszt
Fresco, The Forlorn Virgin...
& other poems

Clifford Hill
How natural you are
& other poems

R. G. Evans
& other poems

David Kann
Dead Reckoning
& other poems

Ricky Ray
The Music of As Is
& other poems

Tori Jane Quante
Creatio ex Materia
& other poems

G. L. Morrison
Baba Yaga
& other poems

Joe Freeman
In a Wood
& other poems

George Longenecker
Bear Lake
& other poems

Benjamin Dombroski
South of Paris
& other poems

Ryan Kerr
& other poems

Josh Flaccavento
Glen Canyon Dam
& other poems
& other poems

Christine Stroud
& other poems

Abraham Moore
Inadvertent Landscape
& other poems

Chris Haug
Cow with Parasol
& other poems

Mariah Blankenship
Fiberglass Madonna
& other poems

Emily Hyland
The Hit
& other poems

Sam Pittman
Growth Memory
& other poems

Alex Linden
The Blues of In-Between
& other poems

Bobby Lynn Taylor
& other poems

D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems

Alia Neaton
Cosmogony I
& other poems

Elisa Albo
Each Day More
& other poems

Noah B. Salamon
& other poems

Toni Hanner


When I touched Lanny’s arm, up where her white sleeve

ended, there were bees humming beneath her warm skin.

When I smelled Lanny’s hair, her straightened hair

the dull black of asphalt, it was sweet, just on the edge of turning.

When I touched Lanny’s hair, smoothed my hand

over the rough surface so unlike my own black silk—

Lanny’s skin the color of Sanka in the jar, a stone

hot in the sun, flecks of glistening fool’s gold.

We took off our clothes and lay giggling in her bed.

We hid her brother’s magazines under the covers

and marveled at the pale women, their enormous breasts,

and marveled at each other’s flat chests,

her little buttons a color I had no name for.

I remember talking dirty, biting the pillows to keep

from screaming with laughter and something else. We had no idea

what any of it meant, all I knew was that I wanted my arms

around her thin little body I wanted to lie on top of her

with my face in the sweaty hollow between her neck and bony

shoulder, I wanted a world I would not learn

how to name until Lanny disappeared.


for Gloria

How did we decide—you nodded right or left,

I followed. Did we tell our parents—how

did we get there neither of us

had a car or a license. In the photo we sit smoking

on a blanket on what must be a beach

although you can’t see the ocean—maybe

it’s a hotel swimming pool. Bikinis, my sly, shy

almond eyes. Your mouth prim, your body

already hatching your future. Seniors in high school,

college freshmen, I remember nothing

but being there, Catalina, 26 miles across the sea,

the Avalon Ballroom’s graceful decay lording it over

daytrippers like us. We took a rickshaw,

night came with the usual terrors. You

went out on a boat with a stranger,

he had a yacht or was pretending to be

a man with a yacht. I don’t remember where

I slept or how we got home. Just this photo,

smoke from my Lucky

a curtain drawn across my face.

On Funerals

Over the land bridge to Idaho,

when my father died we didn’t

it’s how the Eskimos got there

and the Portuguese, my aunt’s

family, rows of Berriochoas

in Shoshone, animate as dust

swirling above ground, but when

my father died we just went home.

Africa, the Great Wall, we re-hung

the wallpaper in the corner cathedral,

we swept up the dust from Chernobyl

and fed each other with eyedroppers.

Now they come so fast, it’s hard

to keep track, my brother my sister

eventual only eighty years ago, now ellipses

in my mother’s autobiography. Oh yes,

she started it, my mother, with her June

snowfall, the monks gathering in their yellow,

her purple bruises, her flesh too yielding,

as if she were melting there in the salt flats

now each flies off after her, massive wing-beats,

we are already forgotten.


Sister, here is your box, it has no stairs.

I will take you out when I need a slide

rule, a compass. Brother, your box

is tall, you will need to stand. If you grow

tired, ring the bell and someone will come

to turn you onto your side.

If you see our father

please tell him his supper

is getting cold.

After Dreams of the Dead
All Night, My Father

I wake late, bones aching and stiff.

A busy night of dead sisters

and living sibyls, a mother

somewhere, stirring the pot.

My ignorant calendar tells me

to send my brother a birthday card.

He’d be 76 on Wednesday, catching up

with our sister, now both are ash. I bought

tiny cork-stoppered bottles, thinking to collect

everyone, line them up on the mantle,

now I’m not so sure, I have my father, maybe

he’s all I need, my blood,

my horse, shambling through family

in a flail, a smolder. The parentheses around

my father and me raising the hair

on the back of my neck, I conjure him,

he strides hobble-gaited through all the watchkeepers,

they can’t see him and if they did, he’d seem a fool.

Inside the pale gold glass, ash sticks

together, wanting to hold some form.

Toni Hanner’s poems appear in Yellow Medicine Review, Alehouse, Calyx, Gargoyle, and others. She is a member of Eugene’s Red Sofa Poets and Port Townsend’s Madrona Writers. She had two books published in 2012: The Ravelling Braid from Tebot Bach, and a chapbook of surrealist poems, Gertrude Poems and Other Objects from Traprock Books. Gertrude was selected by Mary Jo Bang as a finalist for the 2013 Oregon Book Award.

Dotted Line