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

Writer's Site

Abigail F. Taylor

On the Pillow Where You Lie

Pause. Pluck the moon into memory

before the sun cracks open the yolk of dawn.

Sorrow weak and gone in reverie

of heaven’s breast bone; the wild blue rambling on.

In this now, I am not watching you die.

You are whole and fit to me as you were

once, when we were new. And foolish.

We, Tom and Huck, aged hard this year.

I won’t be ready for your rye

departure, your stone-wrought name slurred

in clipped grass. I am too selfish

to let you go. With death so near

I mourn the living you, but it’s not dark

yet. Soon the moon will cradle its mouth between

the burden of sky. You and I, marked

by fate, thrust into an idle god’s routine.

The Older One

I do not have a fairy-tale sister.

Not the sort with twisted fingers

and charred spirit. She is the winter

between seasons. She is only a whisper;

the gladness of fresh snow and honey lemon tea.

What we are is not a Hollywood marquee.

We do not gossip or share ice cream.

We are ships in the night.

Blood strangers.

Once in the morning light

we built stick houses for The Green Folk.

Begonias ruined and laid by the stream

to garnish crowns as we sang “Da Luan, Da Mart.”

All for a moment.

I am as unsure of her as I am of that day.

Small clean memories are too few to be forgotten.

Sisters, we are told, have a bond that is uncommon.

Not so. Sometimes sisters struggle to obey

the path. We fall apart. Unaware of the dangers.

Young Australian

We lay in the summer bed

having never slept together

but for the steady breath

and the quiet warmth

of our arms pressed as one.

A Threesome with Liquor

Ah yes! Music is the fool of love

but not as forgiving as rusted brandy

shattered like the melody.

Reach for that tender woman in the bottle

then tell me you adore me.

But goodness falls short of

this. You, unable to hold promises, scanty

in bockety hands, are still astoundingly


We often cherish the difficult things.

They glue together small pleasures.

You sleeping while I read.

Fresh bread kneaded together.

Silk sheets against bare thighs.

But erratic days become too much and bring

hair pulling ENOUGH! That pressures

the twist of conflicted needs.

I learned to never trust you

and I am at fault for trying.

Immaculate Exception

another song for Ruben.

To this day

your heat is engraved

into the grooves of my fingers


we sang, Tomorrow!

Our eager dreams stretched

beyond the time you borrowed

This month. This hour

sorrow worships

all your names

And when this sour


rubs raw young flesh

I don’t want to go on

and can’t . . .

Go on.

Oh to speak with you

One. Last. Time.

The only voice I hear is

my own darkness

Or worse. Nothing.

                           And I am sorry I never cooked you breakfast.

Abigail F. Taylor is a student of theology and history. She has had the honour of being previously published in Illya’s Honey and Red River Review. She also served as Script Editor and Assistant to the Director to the gore black-comedy, The Dinosaur Experience (previously known as Raptor Ranch). She is currently working on her second novel and a chapbook.

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