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Poetry Summer 2015    fiction    all issues


Cover Hannah Lansburgh

Jennifer Leigh Stevenson
For Your Own Good
& other poems

Marianne S. Johnson
& other poems

Kate Magill
Nest Study #1
& other poems

Karen Kraco
& other poems

Matt Daly
Beneath Your Bark
& other poems

Paulette Guerin
& other poems

Hank Hudepohl
Crossed Words
& other poems

Alma Eppchez
At the Back of the Road Atlas
& other poems

Jim Burrows
At the Megachurch
& other poems

Rachel Stolzman Gullo
& other poems

Yana Lyandres
New York Transplant
& other poems

Heather Katzoff
& other poems

Tom Yori
& other poems

Barth Landor
What Is Left
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
Never So Still
& other poems

George Longenecker
Polar Bears Drowning
& other poems

Ben Cromwell
Sometimes a Flock of Birds
& other poems

Robert Mammano
the way the ground shakes
& other poems

Janet Smith
Rocket Ship
& other poems

Gina Loring
& other poems

J. Lee Strickland
Minoan Elegy
& other poems

Toni Hanner
Catching the Baby
& other poems

Barth Landor

What Is Left

What is left of being right

when in the long run I am wrong?

At first I was just right

until at last I was just left.

Is it wrong to exit stage left

if the prompt is not in the script?

Merely to do no wrong

is a good way to be left,

although even the right way to be good

may still in the end be just wrong.

I lie down on our bed’s right side

while you go to sleep on the other’s.

If your right hand knew what your ring hand left,

then at least I am right that I am wrong.

Dalgairn House

Heaven came up for rent at thirty pounds a week

with no deposit down. We were freshly wed

and student-poor, and so we signed a lease

on paradise: we made our ascent

to the sunlit upper story of a Scottish

mansion on a hill in the Kingdom of Fife.

Brambles ripened in the hedgerows

and strawberries sweetened in the fields.

On the lawn that welcomed even pheasant,

a small boy nursed a patch of herbs.

All was fertile indoors, too:

stacks of books grew read, and the ribbon

of my little Olivetti seeded letters

for a garden of words I gave to you.

In the home beneath our feet, the noises

of children rose to our ears like Kansas corn,

while above the heads of our landlord family,

you turned to tell me

that one of our own had taken root in you.

That idyll ended long ago.

Garret companions in our salad days,

honeymoon scholars gaining fluency

in languages and love,

in our vinegar years we turned into

strangers even in our common tongue.

One of us yielded and one of us failed to,

both of us strayed and one of us stayed.

When one of us found—or lost—one’s truer self,

one of us wept as one of us left.

So the calamity happened.

But I tell you that this did, too:

we made bramble jam from berries

we gathered on country lanes.

We had little to our names.

We read psalms aloud before bed

above the room of a child called Jimbo,

that myopic and timid sibling

of important older sisters,

the pale boy who still lives in my mind

(we moved after a year and never returned)

In a fragile state of innocence.

Barth Landor lives in Chicago. His novel, A Week in Winter, was published by the Permanent Press.

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