Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2017    fiction    all issues


Cover Marija Zaric

Kathryn Merwin
For Aaron, Disenchanted
& other poems

William Stevens
Celestial Bodies
& other poems

Kendra Poole
Take-Off, or The Philosophy of Leaving
& other poems

AJ Powell
Mama Atlas
& other poems

Matt Farrell
Waves in the dark
& other poems

Timothy Walsh
Eating a Horsemeat Sandwich at Astana Airport 
& other poems

Nancy Rakoczy
& other poems

Joshua Levy
Venezuela Evening
& other poems

Ryan Lawrence
Vegan Teen Daughter vs. Worthless Dad
& other poems

George Longenecker
Yard Sale
& other poems

Susanna Kittredge
My Heart
& other poems

Morgan Gilson
& other poems

Jim Pascual Agustin
The Annihilation of Bees
& other poems

Taylor Bell
Browsing Tinder in an Aldi
& other poems

David Anderson
Continental Rift
& other poems

Charles McGregor
The Boys That Don’t Know
& other poems

Cameron Scott
Ashes to Smashes, Dust to Rust
& other poems

Kenneth Homer
Inferno Redux
& other poems

Alice Ashe
& other poems

Kimberly Sailor
Marriage's Weekly Schedule
& other poems

Kim Alfred
Soul Eclipse
& other poems

Writer's Site

Kendra Poole

or The Philosophy of Leaving

I try to imagine the time of leveling. I am glued

at an acute angle, watching the aisle arch skyward,

waiting for gravity, strapped, committed

to leaving you behind. Below, the city wrinkles,

ribbed and colorful, acrylics on earthy cardboard.

I like it better that way. I can never fall

in love for real. I’m too fond of falling out of it.

If I leave you here, you can miss the me I made

for you. Take care of her.

Already we are leveling. The sky nestled

below us, we skid over weather and sunbathe

above the atmosphere. I press my nose to the glass

to remember it is colder up here. Before we touch down,

I expect I will really miss you once and pretend

to miss you twice.

Turbulence jerks awake the sleeping, we descend

under the cover of night, dark cities are just inverted

skies: little stars dropped on their heads, calling themselves

streetlights, confused about the origin of their spark.

After reading about the Rwandan Genocide while I waited for my volunteer shift to begin at the Annual Apple Festival,
Brookside Nature Center,

When it started, I helped the kids

fold fingernail dirt into their apple turnovers,

little tongues licking sugar

off their fingertips, dipped back

into the bowl after. Oliver, his mom calls him,

crafts a paper crown to be the apple king.

Apple peels float in the cider. An autumn

leaf falls into the apple press. It is demolished

and then forgotten. A mother tucks her palms

under a pregnant belly while she laughs,

then spoons applesauce for the toddler.

It smells like funnelcakes and fire smoke.

I mold the apple turn-overs, crimping

the edges. I am so far away

from genocide. I slice each apple into pieces;

they are bites of family time and sunny afternoons.

Do they grow apples in Rwanda? Can you slice them

with a machete? When I walk the orchard

path to leave, I gather fallen

apples. How can I carry them all?

Kendra Poole is from Albuquerque, NM, and graduated from the George Washington University with a degree in English and Creative Writing. Kendra is a poet who also dabbles in politics, journalism, and international development. She enjoys reading, biking, traveling, jazz, and bagels.

Dotted Line