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

David Kann

Dead Reckoning

For Beth Buxton

Well, you died by inches

fighting the filthy crab,

surgeons carving important pieces

from you,

always one step behind.

Tell me:

when you lay

together with your lover,

though your desire had become

no more than an echo,

and when you let him

uncover you

and reveal the gnarled landscape

your body had become,

did you turn your head away

in the slant lamp-shadows,

like a child believing

not to see him meant

you were free

of his gaze

while he read

the chart of scars,

some red and purple and new,

some tallow-yellow and settled-in—

that odyssey of agony—

could he squint through the map

and regain the territory,

and navigating by dead reckoning,

did he lay his cheek by your tender navel

and breathe you in,

honey-sweet as an infant?

Bolus of Flame in the Sistine Chapel

The moment after Michelangelo


the Sistine ceiling,

he cleaned his brushes,


his lanterns, turned and walked away

for wine and a lover, needful,


by completion’s void,

leaving the room, leaving God


in a cloak red as sunrise,

by pink, cloud-rounded cherubim


with his finger almost touching Adam’s.

In the reeking dark,


with snuffed candle-smoke and drying plaster’s smell,

life’s bright unruly spark


from God’s finger to Adam’s,

and like sunstruck oil


and filled his palm, while God

rose into the night and


indifferent, leaving

His orphan reclining on bare rock. Adam


his burning hand to his mouth,

swallowed the bolus of flame, then


staggering under the weight of conscious flesh,

found his fiery tongue and


himself and all his get into time.

Report from Planet Senex

Whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.


Oh, but this is a hard land

to love.

Grey hills slump

and thick rivers

sprawl in deltas

splayed like dead hands.

Tan sand’s strewn

with flakes of flint and chert.

No steel to strike.

No kindling.

Nothing to slice

but brown lichen,

rags of dead flesh

on empty skulls.

The shambling wind skins

dust from the ground.

Sunrise is a gray smear,

and sunset stains

the sky with spilled ink.

All night

in the dark

sick fish wail

from a stagnant lake,

tearing the clouds.

In the black gashes

a few stars dim,

their voices growing red,

like opals sinking

in thick oil.

Pieta in Red

I found a liquidambar tree,

blazestruck with autumn and sunset.

Among its five-point leaves,

a red-tail hawk

pinned a sprawled dove

to a branch.

She dipped her sickle beak

to shredded pink meat.

The naked dove didn’t move,

complicit in the slow

tearing toward its heart.

In the windless evening

the red light died

in night’s slow slide

up the flaming tree.

When the Red-Tail gutted me

with her eye.

I filled

with the icy consent

of lichen, mushroom and frost.

Then she closed

her switchblade talons

and rose above

the leaves

with the lolling dove.

David Kann escaped academic administration and returned to poetry and just-teaching. In the process he discovered that writing poetry makes him feel more like himself than most activities. In pursuit of himself and better poetry he recently completed an MFA at Vermont College of Fine Arts. He has been published in Stoneboat and The Sierra Nevada Review, among other journals.

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