Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2014    fiction    all issues


Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems

Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems

Tee Iseminger
& other poems

Lisa Beth Fulgham
After They Sold the Cows...
& other poems

Mary Mills
The Practical Knowledge
of Women
& other poems

Monika Cassel
Waldschatten, Muttersprache
& other poems

Michael Fleming
To a Fighter
& other poems

Daniel Stewart
& other poems

John Glowney
& other poems

Hannah Callahan
The Ptarmigan Suite
& other poems

Lee Kisling
How the Music Came
to My Father
& other poems

Jose A. Alcantara
Finding the God Particle
& other poems

David A. Bart
Veteran’s Park
& other poems

Greg Grummer
War Reportage
& other poems

Rande Mack
& other poems

J. K. Kitchen
Anger Kills Himself
& other poems

Jim Pascual Agustin
The Man Who Wished
He Was Lego
& other poems

Jessica M. Lockhart
Scylla of the Alabama
& other poems

James P. Leveque
Three Films of Jean Painlevé
& other poems

Kelsey Charles
& other poems

Therese L. Broderick
& other poems

Lane Falcon
& other poems

Ricky Ray
The Bird
& other poems

Phoebe Reeves
Every Petal
& other poems

David Livingstone Fore
Eternity is a very long time...
& other poems

Tim Hawkins
Northern Idyll
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
On the Pillow Where You Lie
& other poems

Joey DeSantis
Baby Names
& other poems

Cameron Price
Every Morning
& other poems

David Walker
Sestina for Housesitting
& other poems

Helen R. Peterson
& other poems

Jose A. Alcantara

Finding the God Particle

When we are finally standing face to face

and flesh to flesh, remind me that I want

more than your body, more than your mind.

Remind me that I want the infinite sweep of you

the full onrushing charge of you

the m-c-squared of you, the big bang of you.

Remind me to give you the indivisible parts of me

the strange quarks of me, the charm of me

the up and down of me.

And though 95% of everything else is darkness

let us be nothing but a tangle of vibrating strings

caught in the claws of a curious cat.


I fell asleep by the river again.

Thirty-eight degrees. The Stranger

in my lap. How is it that the same sun

that gives this sweet lethargy

brings another man to murder?

A single shot, a pause, then four more.

As I watch the ducks drop into the eddies

I know the sun is not to blame, nor the moon,

the fires, the droughts, or the surging tides.

We act. We do what we want.

Sometimes we get away with it.

Sometimes we pay a price.

A Day in the Life

It’s her birthday.

She opens a tiny black box

bound in a blue bow.

A billion billion stars tumble out

some yellow, some red

some big, some small.

They fall, in all directions

into a bottomless black bowl

where they burn burn burn

until she makes a wish

and with her cold breath

blows them out.

Jose A. Alcantara lives in Carbondale, Colorado. He started writing poetry four years ago after a quasi-mystical experience in a graveyard involving Dante, a dead woman named Guadalupe, melting frost, a raven, and some church bells. He was the recipient of a 2013 Fishtrap Fellowship in Poetry and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Dotted Line