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

Hear Writer Read

G. L. Morrison

Icarus’ Father

Daedalus never understood the danger of joy.

He was imprisoned for this misunderstanding,

for making a device for the Queen’s pleasure

when the King had ceased to please her.

The architects of pleasure are wingless

and short-sighted. The waxy geometry

of flight does not account for the angle

of wind against the skin or the sum

of sunlight. Logarithms of desire,

the delirious arithmetics of living,

dividing the sky between the sun

which will devour all our days

and the cold, blue sea. We fly akimbo

skimming the irreconcilable balance,

neither bird or fish enough to navigate

those distances. When I fall (and I will

fall) I know my father will fly on

without me. There are more sons

to be fathered on an unarrived shore.

Tomorrow is a margin in a ledger.

Baba Yaga

three times this house turned its back

to the sea and its door toward me

what choice did I have but enter

the hunger outburned any hope or risk

outweighed the distance

I came to know as regret

what choice did I have but lay

my chin on the shelf beside yours

filling the room with our far-flung bodies

stretched as deliberate as sleep

my memory of our arms and legs open

fills the house—your head in the kitchen ,

hands flung into closets, one foot in the garage,

the heel of the other furrowing the yard

these rooms could not contain what we filled it with

and seemed to grow smaller around us

my house is still filled with the sounds of our sleeping

this was Baba Yaga’s dream: that I was a hunger

you could never satisfy and not the woman

who followed the top she sent spinning

into forests, toward other houses

the truth is you were that hunger I fed myself to

until not even bones remained

and so had nothing left of myself for you

Relentless Blue

I look for you in this poem with both hands

every word like the fingers of a blind sculptor

searching for your familiar face in the sightless clay.

If I were a painter, what I want to say

to you would be a shade of blue that couldn’t be bought

only blended by loving curiosity and relentless patience

blue as sun rising on the ocean after a storm

blue as dawn, obsidian about to shatter

in a wet cacophony of color. Azure

love. Sapphire uncertainty.

Hungers marbled turquoise and lapis lazuli.

If I were a sailor, this poem would be

a hundred days at sea.

Lips cracked with salt and silence.

Above me—in the wet, endless sky—clouds row by

with a cargohold of storms and birds for barnacles.

Gulls shriek like lonely women.

Every star is an omen, I navigate by touch.

Below me—in the wet, endless sea—is everything

I dare imagine, everything that will ever

and will never be: wide and spiny as puffer fish

infinitely blue and filled with stones, fish, and sunken

treasure; the skeletons of clouds, birds, and stars;

sharks, mermaids, and the myriad of scuttling mysteries.

This poem is adrift in tomorrow’s current

somewhere off the coast of yesterday.

Your hand on this page is bone china,

the pottery buried with Pharoahs, Klimt’s

yellow kiss, swollen mouthed as O’Keefe flowers.

Your hand on this page is the woman who waits

in a cottage overlooking the sea

where every hundred-day journey hopes to end.

Award-winning poet G. L. Morrison writes, teaches, and nests in Portland, Oregon. Her writing has migrated into Sinister Wisdom, Evergreen Chronicles, Girlburn, The Advocate, Manzanita Quarterly, Alternet, Sexis, and into anthologies including Best of Best Women’s Erotica (Cleis Press), Mom: Candid Memoirs (Alyson Books), and How Can You Say We’re Not Related (Scurfpea Publishing). Her poetry collection Chiaroscuro Kisses (Headmistress Press) will be released later this year.

Dotted Line