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

Alia Neaton

Cosmogony I

History tells us we

Climbed from the slime of

Phoenicia, dripping with

Disease and burning for

Change. In the cradle of

Civilization, deep

Ridges above our eyes,

We poured in what we

Could learn of the world,

Of how it was, we thought,

Thought of how it could be.

We couldn’t be stopped

Until the Fertile Crescent bulged

With words written, with

The glitter of glass, the spin

Of a rough wheel. We

Began in the womb of the

World, where subspecies

Died until progress rose and

Stood on shaky legs and

Surveyed the land and the

Scope of the sea and then

Wondered about it all.

What we believe dies

In flame, rises. History

Repeats to the scourge of

Sons. As soon as man saw

Man, they started fighting.

Soft glow, microscopic

Scaffold, double

Helix—our computed

Code: programming

Madness. The sun burns as

It falls behind New Jersey.

An Eastern Seaboard awash

With anger and sweat and the

Sting of the sea. When we dig

Into our past, we discover

Secrets. When we find

Truth, we are changed.

When we change, we burn.

Cosmogony II

In the lounge of the

Aurora House on

47th Street,


In art of those lost

To AIDS. A prayer

Wall of wounds, long gashes

Bleeding one into

The other. Each slip

Exposing someone

Else’s precious memory.

A massive wall of

Wishes, a wall holding

Up hope and despair,

Cracked plaster beneath

Broken bows of remembrance,

Of a community unloading

Their heavy hearts so that,


They may be lifted.

Cosmogony III

Snow blotches

Spectral ground,

The stubborn,

Icy piles

Squatting still,


To let spring

In. A rat

Streaks across

The alley,

Over scraps

Of paper,

Glass, and the

Old tire-tread

Remains of

Another rat.

A woman

Stands, shadowed,

Inside her

Screen door. Smoke

Curls from her


While the white

Cheshire moon

Smirks in the

Sky, trailed by

Two glowing


Kite tail of


And Venus,

Frozen ten,

Only ten,

Degrees a

Part in, a

Part of the


Curtain that


Us from the

Brittle chill

Of boundless,



Cosmogony IV

A world away from me,

My blood burns in the sand.

A city in shambles and a family of one

Stand still on a dusty morning.

The blue sky lays shrouded in grey

And the streets are silent and strange.

Since yesterday’s dusk, the storm raged on.

Now the city doesn’t know her face.

There was a display outside.

Did we feel safe behind walls?

Across our city, a fire blazed,

And structures crumbled and fell.

The glass balcony glowed red,

Refracted auburn streaks shimmered,

Distorted on the panes.

Deep garnet splashed the bedroom

Bathing us in shades of fire and blood.

Cosmogony V

In what was a sunlit dining room,

The arc of time snaps.

As sure as I feel the smooth

Finish of wood table beneath

My hand, I know it is not

Real. A tangle of atoms

Held together by the mind

And what the mind conceives

As a table.

In what was a Tuesday afternoon,

Oak splinters and fades.

Raw matter bursts

Beneath my fingers—

Spectrum of color

And radiance, rays

Exploding outward,

Dissolving the impression

Of world around it. It is terrible and

Beautiful, the nature of this world.

The primal bay of anguish rises:

I cannot conceive a reality without him.

But then, I cannot conceive this reality at all.

Alia Neaton is a writer and editor who received an MA in writing and publishing from DePaul University in 2013 and is thrilled to have her poems debut in Sixfold. She is currently working on her first full-length manuscript, an exploration of modern society’s dynamic relationship with food. She lives in Chicago with her husband; they are expecting their first child in February.

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