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Poetry Summer 2022    fiction    all issues

Cover of Poetry Summer 2022


Joanne Monte
& other poems

Holly York
Still When I Reach for the Leash
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Catholicism Still Lingers in a Concrete Poem
& other poems

D.T. Christensen
Coded Language
& other poems

Laura Faith
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
Winter in Choctaw
& other poems

Natalie LaFrance-Slack
& other poems

Nicole Sellino
iii. moving, an interruption
& other poems

Gilaine Fiezmont
In Memoriam / Day of the Dead
& other poems

Sheri Flowers Anderson
On Being A Widow
& other poems

RJ Gryder
& other poems

William S. Barnes
to hatch
& other poems

Suzannah Van Gelder
& other poems

Sam Bible-Sullivan
The Dying Worker’s Soliloquy
& other poems

Hills Snyder
Eclipse (July 4, 2020)
& other poems

Lauren Fulton
Birth Marks
& other poems

David Sloan
& other poems

Nancy Kangas
Dry Dock Cranes of Brooklyn Navy Yard
& other poems

Noreen Graf
In Attendance
& other poems

Jim Bohen
Nothing Tea
& other poems

Thomas Baranski
Let us name him dread and look forward
& other poems

Writer's Site

Nancy Kangas

Kentucky Rest Stop

Cat was like no way we’re doing this leash thing,



don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming.

You set your honey down

in the pets-allowed grass near our hot cars.

Here your beast shrank inside the straps

until it was an arrow and shot itself

into the world beyond. That is,

towards the river.

And you,

don’t tell me that woman should not

have brought her cat in her car. Or that that cat

is coming back. Don’t tell me cats

don’t like cars. I’m not talking about cats.

Don’t tell me you’ve never been that woman.

Never stood there holding a leash of nothing.

She’d packed the tuna treats.

Kitted out the backseat.


you didn’t stay

with the one who loved you.

Now you’ve got the river. And the river doesn’t care.


a golden shovel, for Marge Piercy

Dezarai is freshly five. I am teachered up at the

bitty table next to her. I want her to be a pitcher

that pours for me a glass of herself. There are cries

from the blocks corner. I ask, “What are you glad for?”

Dezarai’s gaze is stone. O turn her to water,

a river full and traveling. Dezarai’s hand moves to

the crayon box. She almost chooses blue. I carry

the wait. She finds the top of the page and

writes every letter she knows. T, H, R, and capital I (a

stick with four wings). Then the little i, like a person

without arms. “What do you love?” I pull for

any of her nouns. Her letters lace the paper. Work

begins now on the back. “Look at that!”

she delights. “That is my name. That is

my first and last names for real.”

Dry Dock Cranes
of Brooklyn Navy Yard


by the muscle of the dark green water

three stout-bodied cranes night-wandered

to the edge of the East River.

Yet when the sun rose and the sky opened

they understood themselves as obvious—

three high hulks on skinny-long legs

unhiding in all that air. They froze—

let the paint peel in curls

off their sides.

I don’t know how long they held it, their breaths

or what made them give up pretending

they weren’t rough beasts

among us. There they go—

slow-swinging their snouts and chains.

I ache to own the sky like that.

Nancy Kangas is a poet and teaching artist based in Columbus, Ohio. She has poetry in books and journals including MAYDAY Magazine, Forklift, Ohio, and Rattle (Poetry Prize Finalist). She is the co-director of Preschool Poets: An Animated Film Series, which features poems composed by her students, and is at work on a short documentary film about crying.

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