Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2019
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Cover Antoine Petitteville

Laura Apol
Easter Morning
& other poems

Taylor Dibble
A Masterpiece in Progress
& other poems

Julia Roth
Lessons From My Menstrual Cup
& other poems

Jamie Ross
Ceaseless Wind. The Drying Sheaves
& other poems

Nicole Yackley
Mea Culpa
& other poems

George Longenecker
I’m sentimental for the Paleolithic
& other poems

Taylor Gardner
Short Observations by Angels
& other poems

Greg Tuleja
No Thomas Hardy
& other poems

Joanne Monte
War Casualties
& other poems

Nathaniel Cairney
Potato Harvest
& other poems

Steven Dale Davison
Wordsmouth Harbor Founder
& other poems

Heather 'Byrd' Roberts
How I Named Her
& other poems

sunny ex
& other poems

Ashton Vaughn
Through the Valley of Mount Chimaera
& other poems

Linda Speckhals
& other poems

Lucy Griffith
Breathing Room
& other poems

Steven Valentine
& other poems

Emily Varvel
B is for Boys and G is for Guys
& other poems

Jhazalyn Prince
Priceless Body
& other poems

Marte Stuart
Generation Snowflake
& other poems

S.J. Enloe
Kale Soup
& other poems

Meghan Dunsmuir
Our Path
& other poems

Marte Stuart


Reclined at home,

bathed in water,

you must have watched

mesmerized, as your blood

let out in ribboned rivulets,

warm tendrils of you swirling

until the dissolved dizziness

was mixed monochrome

and you were dead.

Only last week you lay languid

too, this time on your belly

with sheet-entangled feet,

staring into a morning coffee,

oblivious to my slick salty trace

mucking your thigh.

You twirled a spoon

in lazy dips, hypnotized

by the surrender of cream

to black, while a cigarette thread

roiled and collapsed in the air

behind your head.

Wet on wet, with painter’s ease,

I captured you then—

my brush, a tongue, traced

the crushing line of your hip.

Watery hues brimmed

at the curved edge

of a sketched boundary,

until a crimson pool burst

your delicate pecan form,

as though your bleeding-out

were inevitable.

Generation Snowflake

Each sculpture manifest

by a wavering thermal flux,

presumption at the crux,

entitled and crystalline,

crafted by a million

well-meant imperfections.

Take no offence,

precious little snowflake,

fragile beauty

tumbling cherished

from the sky,

you are no match

for this wet street.


Just behind the house,

close to home,

is the forest where we got lost,

certain our snowy prints

would bring us back.

The regular rise and fall

of undulating land,

this tree stand, another,

different only for failed light.

Before the rocky outcrop,

we veered sharply left.

I think that’s where we went off.

Minds disoriented

by the pull-push

of what I said, you said,

the return ground shifted,

you arguing,

the sun’s low angle,

my boots dug-in,

our familiar turn, missed.

awaiting the biopsy

each moment

the river drifts

no part twice

the same


and now again


what comes


dragon boats

blocked ducts

stuck dams



under a bridge

runs elusive


not captured

as it is

              as it is

              as it is

Marte Stuart gravitates toward poems with scientific and/or theological underbellies. Her current fav is A Backwards Journey by P. K. Page. Often lost, she believes “being led backwards through the eye of the mind” to be a helpful space-time practice, or observing a river. Her best life work has been devoted to two perfect snowflakes, yet in free-fall.

Dotted Line