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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

Writer's Site

Therese L. Broderick


Better that my daughter forget

her weakest rabbit, one I loved

the most, white runt Polly

born lame, her red eyes

the spitting image of rabid;

and kept away from our cat,

penned inside our zoo—

warmest upstairs room—

which might’ve been filled with

a baby crib, rocker,

and a table for all those changes

of onesies, had I ever wanted

to have another baby, but no,

never did want

to risk

playing favorites. And better that

my little girl was sleeping

that evening Polly shriveled

like a flawed corsage

on the carpet, between my knees,

on my lap her rear leg ceasing

to twitch: first of twenty limbs

to wither. First rabbit to die,

just shy of those four equal

survivors, my sturdy orphans.

To the Motionless One in Egypt

Pup, will you lift your dry head, open dusty eyelids 

if I slap you hard on your ribs, tug at your right ear, 

force open your jaws with the rim of my bottle,

will you rise on front paws if I flee my tour, leap 

into this pit of crumbling columns, only shade for miles 

you might perish in—or the other strays pant in—

which parchment was once your milking mother? 

Pup, are you sinking through Valley of the Queens 

or sailing to Ra, or will you rouse soon as I’ve gone

back to the bus, through tinted windows glimpsing 

your resurrection but forbidden—ever—to touch 

the miracle, to rest my hand on your salting belly.

Pistol Squat

Fuck any aim of Zen


I do squats as means

of combat, BMI

held to 20.

Right knee bent, left leg deployed

like the barrel of a


Ankle cocked & hard core

burning down

inch by


Target: the toe:

Fix it.

three two one


The Old Stylist

She soothes by comb, making it all better, 

she wants to make hairs happy once 

again, as they were before neglect— 

my cheap shampoo, steely bristles—

and she wants to move to a city warm 

with tropical reds & mauves & yellows, 

new textures she can improve upon

every eight weeks, or six

and she doesn’t want the water spray too hot 

on my head or the dryer helmet too close 

or the cut too short, or highlights too bright 

for my grey eyes, she wants to retire

after a few more years of this, squeezing perfect 

tablespoons of perm gel, rescuing roots, 

coating every gal in her chair with bliss: the do 

will be so much easier going forward.

With Lines from All My Diaries Since the Millennium

She rehearses the words of Zeus, aloud, 

waiting in bed

for breakfast.

Mistletoe is a veiled parasite,

and my party mask is the back 

of a round mirror.

Of the pumpkin

she takes 50 photos, then says to me,

you’re too overflowing.

My husband’s mother (God help her)

put Superglue in the corner

of a false eyelash.

2010 was the best year of my life: 

I almost had Asperger’s. Until 

my doctors agreed: you don’t have Asperger’s.

Loud, soft, loud, soft: patterns

I snore in. He groans in.

“Singers Wanted”

pleads a bumper sticker;


declaims a license plate.

Did you know that some tornadoes 

can swirl invisible?

Therese L. Broderick has spent many years serving her poetry community in Albany, New York, as an open-mic reader, teacher, contest judge, Board member, classroom guest, blogger, and Poet Laureate of a local tavern.

Dotted Line