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Poetry Summer 2018    fiction    all issues

Poetry Cover Summer 2018


Cover Michael Lønfeldt

Carol Lischau
& other poems

Noreen Ellis
Jesus Measured
& other poems

Amanda Moore
Learning to Surf
& other poems

Adin Zeviel Leavitt
& other poems

Jim Pascual Agustin
Stay a Minute, the Light is Beautiful
& other poems

Timothy Walsh
The Wellfleet Oyster
& other poems

Anna Hernandez-French
Watermelon Love
& other poems

J. L. Grothe
Six Pregnancies
& other poems

Sue Fagalde Lick
Beauty Confesses
& other poems

Abby Johnson
Finding Yourself on Google Maps
& other poems

Marisa Silva-Dunbar
& other poems

Merre Larkin
Sensing June
& other poems

Savannah Grant
& other poems

Andrew Kuhn
Plains Weather
& other poems

Catherine Wald
Against Aubade
& other poems

Joe Couillard
Like New Houses Settling
& other poems

Faleeha Hassan
In Nights of War
& other poems

Olivia Dorsey Peacock
Thelma: ii
& other poems

Sarah Louise
& other poems

Kimberly Russo
Inherent Injustice
& other poems

Frannie Deckas
Child for Sale
& other poems

Jacqueline Schaalje
& other poems

Nancy Rakoczy
Her Face
& other poems

Ashton Vaughn
& other poems

Writer's Site

Olivia Dorsey Peacock



for as long as I can remember

her dedication to morning routines was unparalleled

her silence


but blaring gospel music

warmly carried me out of bed

and down stairs

for sausage links or bacon

always with pancakes

and orange juice with pulp.

I loved to make her laugh.

And would

chase her around the house with a camera—

the game conceived from a fear

of permanently remaining

imperfect on film.

Watching game shows

confidently declaring the prices of

Clorox bleach

among other commodities.

Making fun of fancy ladies

while playing make up

in the mirror.

Her laughter announced

her presence in this life

from a stoic seat

in that dining room chair

or her scrunched up nod-off

spot on the TV couch.

I kept thinking

if I made her laugh

Grandma would have no reason

to fall asleep.


the sensual dance of crazed


glee within the

charred remains of a



held against the restraints

of her own reality

binding her petite Black frame

to stiff, rollable one

’ll fix it

the wine’ll fix it

the second one’ll fix it

the pills’ll fix it


Fix it fix it fix it fix it fix it fix it fix it

is this why Bill traveled?

what did the voices tell her?

how long until it burned it all away?

innocent faces on glossy yearbook print

chuckled under a nice, retiring char

I tried to

               “be a good wife

                                                amid the voices.


pinot carried angel kisses in each sip

each stem a rung

bottle the wrong key

for a gate that wasn’t ready for her yet

I made an angel

did I need to make another

and try motherhood twice?

I had plenty

                           of practice

flying with the pillows

               if I collapsed,

                           pressed my face

               into the cushion

I could almost see


               view from the clouds

kicking my heels, confetti to the lives below.


happiness was at the bottom

of an egg custard pie

where ferries sailed away

and to Beacon lights ice cream in hand

scuttling children leaping

thin brown bodies in thick coats on thick decks

to retreat to warm rooms

and sweets from father’s dirty quarry hands

mother at the oven´s edge

creasing lips into poised, anxious

unspoken passages and a voice into

a tickled clink.


her favorite photograph

froze her in 1964

her senior picture

a bobbed haircut just

the right amount of frizz

arched horizons

to shield chocolate eyes

from dreams into the distance

              (As a student I—

                            “studied business secretarial.”)

slightly aloof


of a blemish free promise

meant to fill in the blanks

                            (My ambition was—

                            “to become a secretary.”)

mouth barely open

as if the photographer

forgot one little thing—

flashing too fast to capture

smile’s full essence

              (My Mother taught me to value—


but to her, it was perfection

punctuated with swift penmanship

with all my love

Olivia Dorsey Peacock is a techie from North Carolina who currently lives in Dallas, Texas, with her husband. By day, she helps doctors and academics make sense of health data and by night, she unravels genealogical mysteries. She has a Bachelors and a Masters in Information Science from UNC Chapel Hill. When she’s not writing poetry, she’s brainstorming ways to use technology for good instead of evil.

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