Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2013    fiction    all issues


Sharron Singleton
Five Poems

Sarah Giragosian
Five Poems

Jenna Kilic
Five Poems

Kristina McDonald
Five Poems

Toni Hanner
Five Poems

Annie Mascorro
Five Poems

Brittney Corrigan
Three Poems

S. E. Hudgens
Four Poems

Ali Doerscher
Four Poems

David Sloan
Three Poems

Olivia Cole
Five Poems

Lucy M. Logsdon
Four Poems

Marc Pietrzykowski
Four Poems

Donna Levine Gershon
Five Poems

Eva Heisler
The Olden Days

Stephanie Rose Adams
Five Poems

Jill Kelly
Five Encounters

Ben Bever
Five Poems

Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Five Poems

Arlene Zide
Three Poems

Harry Bauld
Five Poems

Lisa Zerkle
Four Poems

Peter Mishler
Five Poems

Tim Hawkins
Five Poems

Marqus Bobesich
Four Poems

Abigail Templeton-Greene
Five Poems

Eric Duenez
Five Poems

Anne Graue
Five Poems

Susan Laughter Meyers
Five Poems

Peter Kahn
Two Poems

D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems

Linda Sonia Miller
The Kingdom

Nicklaus Wenzel
Skagit River

Holly Cian
Five Poems

Susan Morse
Five Poems

Daniel Lassell
Five Poems

Svetlana Lavochkina
Temperate Zones

Daniel Sinderson
Three Poems

Catherine Garland
Five Poems

Michael Fleming
Five Poems

Daniel Sinderson

Despite Horrifying Sadness, the Birth of the World Again and Again

for A and Alain Badiou

Three days after the world failed to end

the sun soaks in.

We joke about our lives

as an echo—the bottom coil

of a slinky dropped from our window

by hands and smiles that are also ours.

Later, I’ll remember the faint click

of rosaries. The sun will continue

to shine, birds will trill and coo,

and something like God will flash

and disintegrate and all will be

as the wind chimes tell it:

soft, bright clashes. Feeling what is far away,

by proxy, no invasion was necessary. Though

we are crushed and growing

despite the weight. A river runs nearby.

The trees and bulbs bloom,

again and again,

as we walk past

and out of the scene

with an exchange of letters,

sly kisses,

we pretend to understand

are necessary.

How lovely to know

such things can be carved

from our hands. Each touch leaving

a new map. Every blood-pure desire

another direction the mind takes

to see the world


and there you are

and there the sun

and every lovely thing

choked down

one spin at a time.

Y(t) = A*sin(wt + φ)

That sounds wonderful,

to break

in this clean division so many speak

so fondly of.

Our trend lines in homeostasis.

No longer crushed, just balanced, into splinters. Naturalized beyond help

like a physics equation or baby grand piano with our fingers’ blood not yet dry

on the keys. And the more I think of Zeno

the more I move

from horror to parody.

I love you—

loving me loving you loving another

epiphany that breaks my throat into grace. Feeling exhumed

then crushed by this expanse we exist in

it should not be so easy to be

happy with the sunset.

Both Renascence and the morning after.

Like trying to explain thinking of you thinking of you thinking of your cat thinking,

I stare at the couch attaching words to an emptiness.

How many times did I not understand

when you said good morning?

How many times

did our footprints fill in

with snow until it looked like the world

erased us?

Of course, we keep

moving, stamping new prints

until, behind us, holier

and holier, the page


Like the Ganges, Our Mouths

She broke in with the spring rain.

The whispers in thousands of erupting drops—

loud, then hushed, then another

unremembered voice for the world.

Now it’s just her and the glittering

sun beam rebar smashing in

from our windows. We live in color.

We talk over crocus

and kiss goodbye with an orange

in my fist. Even our shouting

is hushed with pink blossoms.

Silly, this indifferent storm and then our silence

again—like stepping with red robes into

the Ganges and filth

only to rise with eyes leaking out the sight’s

ecstatic rupturing and singing praises with howls

and arms akimbo—our words

tossed into air and told to fly.


But the weight grows,

our baptisms continue,

our bodies drink from the world

until we have no choice but

to hurt. Look at the feet, the legs,

our fingers—look at the stones. Watch

the blossoms sift and pile around us

like a statue of the Buddha

in one of Issa’s poems—the air cool

after the children’s games have ended,

as the Earth’s cold shoulder

to the sun begins,

and the curious songbirds

have left—like our own desire to move—

this terrible, small hope.

Daniel Sinderson is a gas station attendant living in Portland, OR, with his partner and cat. He received his BA in Anthropology last year and will shortly be traveling to Sardinia to study the Bronze Age Nuragic culture. His poems have appeared in The Dirty Napkin, Metazen, and Rufous City Review. He received the Kay Snow Award for Poetry in 2009.

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