Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2016    fiction    all issues



Cover Carly Larsson

Sarah Sansolo
Bedtime Stories
& other poems

Miranda Cowley Heller
Things the Tide Has Discarded
& other poems

Alexa Poteet
Escobar's Hacienda Napoles
& other poems

Cynthia Robinson Young
Triple Dare
& other poems

Nicole Lachat
Of Infidelities
& other poems

Amy Nawrocki
Bad Girls
& other poems

Lawrence Hayes
Winter Climb
& other poems

AJ Powell
God the Baker
& other poems

Gisle Skeie
& other poems

Bruce Taylor
Always Expect a Train
& other poems

Ricky Ray
They Used to Be Things
& other poems

S. E. Ingraham
Storm Angels
& other poems

Laura Gamache
& other poems

Keighan Speer
It Rained Today
& other poems

Emma Atkinson
Grocery Stores Make Me Feel Mentally Ill
& other poems

Erin Lehrmann
& other poems

D. H. Turtel
Margaret, Again
& other poems

Chris Haug
Bovine Paranoia
& other poems

Kimberly M. Russo
Definitive Definition
& other poems

Holly Walrath
A Tourist of Sorts
& other poems

Angel C. Dye
Beauty in Her Marrow
& other poems

Nicole Lachat

Your Throat Is Gripped with Love’s Pain

No avenue wet with salt

No white sails anchored between blues

Nothing but the line to evoke them

It is ten o’clock in the morning

I am uptown and nowhere near myself

Outside flakes drape the pavement

The city lives through another white burial

     You smoked Dunhill blues

     One leg over the sheets

     And my legs wrapped around your torso

     Learned the many ways to pray

     With the body

Down Broadway the afternoon ploughs

Someone shouts about Jesus

From a milk carton hill

We live under the burden of scarves

Someone steps onto the platform

Emerges from the underground

     A moment we do not photograph

     A warming dark

     A thing becoming clearer

     The grip of sunlight over a naked body

I have returned up the six flights

The voices in the hallway vanish

You are not next to me

I’m in another country

Your bougainvillea will darken without witness

The sheets are cold

On the roof the neighbors are smoking

Of Infidelities

there were only a handful.

A natural decline, or be it progress,

we’ve learned more than two ways of splitting

a deck. As if every morning were not another death

they rose to the charade again, to the rehearsed

kindnesses. She, resuming the position

of footstool and porter. He, a roof,

a silk blouse. And because he couldn’t bring himself

to make a clean cut, he hacked away

at the bird on Thanksgiving, until, claiming

he could no longer muster cruelty,

let the creature squirm until it’d all bled out.

Nicole Lachat is a Canadian poet of Peruvian and Swiss descent. Beyond borders, she is a Bunburyist at heart, and a recent MFA graduate of New York University.

Dotted Line