Poetry Summer 2019 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Greenheart
sunny ex
& other poems
Ashton Vaughn
Through the Valley of Mount Chimaera
& other poems
Linda Speckhals
Borderlands
& other poems
Lucy Griffith
Breathing Room
& other poems
Steven Valentine
Written
& 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
Emily Varvel
B is for Boy
and G is for Guy (1945)
The girl grips the grill,
Of her Grandpa’s busted truck,
Still tasting the grape juice,
Along her burbling tongue.
Granted, Grandpa’s truck is larger than her.
“Goodness, gracious,” any bystander would gander,
That truck could grab her and break ’er in half.
But she’s a natural, balanced there
In her brand-new, baby-white boots,
As if God himself had planted her little feet down,
On that graveled ground,
At Grandpa’s.
Little girl,
Gorgeous girl,
You don’t get it yet.
But you will in good time.
That place you’re in is not granted to you.
Grandpa’s truck is for the guys in town.
Right now, it is only for make believe.
You see, God didn’t see fit to gift you that advantage.
So, bathe in the greatness now,
Of guiding that automobile,
Of governing where it goes,
Because in the war of guys and dolls,
It’ll be awhile before the guns are finally on your side—
Once and for all.
An Analysis in Assonance
She suffers in suffixes,
Communicates in commas,
Periodically exists,
As a series of punctuations,
And periods.
Her euphoria rests
in anaphora
in parallelism
in
enjambment
Poetry flows in her veins—
Ink as thick as blood
Her eyes act as a pen
Shooting pins
Her punches are puns
Laced in the fine vintage
Of Shakespeare and Frost
Of Dickinson and Poe
Allusions made all too clear
In the illusion she presents to the world
She prefers
to perform
through prefixes
She gets as excited for an ellipse
As the world for an eclipse . . .
Vase
You knocked my flower vase off the counter.
Now I have to wrap my shirt,
Tightly around my skin,
And pick up the splatter.
But the glass still slips through,
Scarring my bone-tired hands.
The mirror image now
Encasing my heart in glue.
So, I pick up the glass,
While you sit on your ass.
But I know that’s not fair,
To make that assumption.
Because I know a little secret,
About how your flower vase functions.
An invisible string,
Like two cans between neighbors,
Tied our vases together,
‘Til you cut with your razors.
So, your flowers fell forward,
Crashing to the floor.
But the furniture is too high,
For me to see you anymore.
But you cut and you clawed,
Not me and my issues.
We weren’t responsible for your pause,
For my abuse of these tissues.
I patch my vase back together,
To display my pretty flowers.
Obstruction
“The anxiety, worry, or physical symptoms cause
clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational,
or other important areas of functioning.”—DSM-5
The heaving,
Scratching,
Vomiting—
The distress,
Impairment,
Obstruction—
And yet,
What about the seemingly insignificant things?
“Did she just give me a funny look?”
“I hope I locked my car door so no one breaks in . . . ”
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
“They’re staring at you.”
“Look, you made him leave.”
“You didn’t get everything done? Typical.”
“How will I pay my bills if my car breaks down?”
“You are a disappointment.”
The incessant inner-monologue of anxiety cuts deepest.
Thoughts churn from head,
To stomach,
To mouth.
Unloading your
Breakfast and insecurities
Into the toilet.
Stomach and brain briefly empty.
But a person must continue to eat.
A brain must continue to think.
Cyclical.
Anxiety is walking on eggshells,
Begging yourself not to step on a crack,
Firmly believing there’s a connection between your mistakes,
And your mother’s broken back.
Anxiety is replaying scenarios in your mind,
Over and over.
Each run through a dissent
Into a different
Circle
of Hell
Anxiety is running a marathon without moving an inch.
Sleep for a year?
Still tired.
Can’t fall asleep?
Still wired.
Anxiety blinds you to accomplishments,
Binds you to it’s establishments.
Distress,
Impairment,
Obstruction—
Yes.
But truly,
Anxiety majors in its minors.
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
something wicked this way comes.”—Shakespeare, Macbeth
Juxtaposition
There are 3 cement rectangles
Completely solid
3 feet thick
They connect to form an open square
The 4th wall
Bars
Smooth and silver
3 inches thick
Across these 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 vertical bars
Rests a horizontal latch
3 inches thick
You are sitting in a cage
You know
You know life outside the cage
It’s liquid freedom and joy
A concoction mixed with happiness
But also unknown
Potentially dangerous
And yet you are locked in this cage
Aren’t you?
The lock is inward-facing
The world can’t get you out
It’s an inside job
And you are the only one with a key
A gift
Should you choose to use it
You are comfortable in your cage
More five-star than cell block
But there is something sour
Like the faintest of rotten scents in the finest perfumes
That permeates these walls
The base is still there
But you wait
And wait
2 sides of yourself conflicting
Juxtaposing each other
You take 1 2 3 steps forward
Pick up the key
Jagged breath—one more step
Shove the key in the lock
Back away
Look at the venomous luxury
1 2 3 steps back
Returning to life in the cage
Immersing yourself in the comfortable filth
With the flicker of freedom fluttering
In the back of your mind
You look up
See the bars
Beyond—
Freedom
Joy
Happiness
1 2 3 4
Turn the key
Step back
You hang a curtain across your bars
Your 4th wall
But you can hear it
The joy, happiness, freedom
1 2 3
Rip the curtain back
Drink in the sight
Satiating your need
You nail 3-inch-thick wood to your bars
Blocking out the sights and sounds
Returning like a pig to its slop
But again and again you return to that wall
Long for it
1
Freedom
2
Joy
3
Happiness
Carnivorous as wolf
You shred the wood
Quick as a fox
You push the door
You look back
Because you are a juxtaposition
You don’t want to be a juxtaposition
1 2 3
Steps forward
You live this uncomfortable life
Filled with uncertainty and pain and strife
But
Filled with freedom and joy and happiness
No rottenness to tinge the sweet
You belong to the outside
Always will
And yet
1 2 3
Steps back
Door closed
Lock latched
Lose sight
Beginning again
And again
And again
Because you are a Juxtaposition
Emily Varvel
is an 8th grade Englsih Language Arts teacher in Katy, Texas. As a recent graduate from the University of Texas, her degree in English introduced her to a wide variety of poets and styles of poetry. This inspired her to start experimenting with poetry of her own. She enjoys providing ghostwriting and ghost editing services. You can either find her reading, writing, watching anything superhero-related, or playing with her little bean of a dog Buffy.