Poetry Summer 2014 fiction all issues
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Anne Rankin-Kotchek
Letter to the World
from a Dying Woman
& other poems
Sara Graybeal
Ghetto City
& other poems
Tee Iseminger
Construction
& 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
January
& other poems
John Glowney
Cigarettes
& 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
rat
& 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
Autobiography
& other poems
Therese L. Broderick
Polly
& other poems
Lane Falcon
Touch
& 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
Ablaut
& other poems
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
beautiful.
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
Remember
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
thing
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.