Poetry Summer 2022 fiction all issues
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Joanne Monte
Departure
& 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
Ungodly
& other poems
Abigail F. Taylor
Winter in Choctaw
& other poems
Natalie LaFrance-Slack
Peace
& 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
Felling
& other poems
William S. Barnes
to hatch
& other poems
Suzannah Van Gelder
Idolatry
& 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
Prostrate
& 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
David Sloan
Recipe for Grammy’s Musical Stew
Before you start preparing this meal, put on
your swarming birds apron; it gives you
more of that St. Francis aura than usual.
Approach the counter less as saint or surgeon
than conductor, a musical liberator, the knife
you’re wielding more baton than scalpel.
Begin by mincing the onions in a slow staccato,
maestra, lento of a pre-sizzle overture. Brown
in butter and olive oil, the Tuscan special label
our friends sent us for “celebratory” occasions,
which back in the day meant a promising prelude
to a steamy evening. When the onions are golden,
add cubed beef. Slice rinsed mushrooms
with your practiced snare drum precision
and add before beef is fully brown. Don’t think
about the Mushrooms Supreme you concocted
early in our marriage. Love is making room
on the tile floor for a beloved—
who inadvertently poisoned us both—
while kneeling and heaving in alternation
through the night. Sprinkle in desired herbs,
according to mood; rosemary if you sense
a headache coming on, oregano if you’re channeling
Isabella Rossellini, thyme if you’re in no rush.
Add with a flourish pinches of flour (speaking of,
remember to admire the tulips I brought home
and artfully arranged in the glass vase
on the dining room table), beef broth,
and a splash of red wine. Pour a glass
for yourself. While it’s simmering for an hour,
peel the patient carrots with long strokes
of a trombone slide. Skin the potatoes—
washboard percussion—cut into chunks,
and drop them like musical tone-stones
kerplunking into the stew. Serve
over rice, a side of steamed broccoli,
and fresh oven-warmed bread to sop up
the gravy. Mustn’t waste a drop. We may not
even need mood music. I’ll do the dishes.
Arson
He descends the hill in saffron
and crimson, proceeds with prayerful
devotion, the air sweet with jasmine
and yak butter. He lights a candle,
subtlest of foreshadowings.
He should have been at the temple
chanting or sweeping or making
alms rounds. Instead he joins
the procession to protest
recent shootings. A fellow devotee
places a cushion in the middle
of the street. The monk extinguishes
the candle, sits in the lotus position.
A growing crowd gathers. A friend
takes a five-gallon can from a car trunk
and pours gas over the monk, who,
in one unhurried motion, lights a match,
the sound like a finger snap. He bursts
into flames, remains unmoving, silent,
even as his bald head begins to bubble.
Later an official will call the act
self-inflicted arson. In Kánh Hòa
province, a couple kneel in front
of a lit candle, a lotus blossom
and small framed photo, trembling
shoulders almost touching. Their lips
move almost soundlessly, mouthing
two words over and over—Our son.
Prostrate
I’m the guest of honor, garden snake at a picnic.
My childhood friend and his grown daughter
peer concernedly down at me.
They perch politely on camp chairs skirting
a blue blanket in the yard, balance plates
of hummus, crackers and crudités.
I lie face up, squinting in fidgety afternoon
shadows. First foray outside after the accident.
I try to writhe discreetly, any position
that will blunt electrified strands
of barbed wire raking hip to calf. Can’t help
resenting the ease with which they sit.
I lose the conversational thread,
picture myself whole, pedaling on Highland
past sad, huddled cows, or chucking
firewood rounds out of the pile
as if they’re beanbags, then uncoiling
a monster maul to bust up oversize chunks.
At night, escape depends upon diverting
attention from flayed nerves
to external solaces; weight of a duvet,
waft and click of the fan, creak of a headboard,
pillow’s cool underside, reassuring
rattle of pills knocked off the chair.
My wife insists the worst has passed,
even as she teases how I bask in playing
the invalid. I want to believe her prognosis,
but I’m still pinned on my back, still
fretting about that i-word, how
there’s two ways to pronounce it.
Making Maple Syrup
A Wedding Poem
I. The Long Wait
It takes patience to make syrup from sap.
You must tap the right trees at the right time,
but you can’t start with tapping; you must wait
out a deep winter freeze, when maples
are dormant, when the forest can feel
as if it’s mourning the losses piled up
in previous seasons, loved ones
snatched away, relationships wrecked.
II. Seeing the Trees AND the Forest
That in-between time—when nights dip
below freezing, when days creep above—
can sneak up on you. What starts
as providing home-cooked meals,
companionship, comfort
against the chill, stirs alchemy.
Crystallized sap and wounded hearts
begin to thaw, then flow.
III. Filling the Buckets
First you cozy up an Atlantic sunrise
from Cadillac’s granite ledges, then wave
farewell to a sinking Western sun
from a red corvette cruising up Highway 1.
Tourists mistake you for Hollywood idols.
Horseback and hot springs in Costa Rica,
posing as flapper and bow-tied dandy
in front of a vintage biplane.
IV. Assembling the Parts
Building a home-made evaporator from scratch
takes ingenuity: so does blending families;
converting a steel drum into a stove for the boil,
trick-or-treating as Pooh and friends; breaking
up firewood for fuel, somehow breaking an ankle
in a parking lot to start a romantic weekend;
stovepipe and flue, tacking and rafting. All it takes
to fit odd parts together is a little gumption.
V. Up in the Air
The sap bubbles away, sweetening the air. Earth,
water, fire have given your love texture, life,
and heat, but the sky’s your binding element.
Pilot lessons, kites dancing and diving, and one
momentous balloon ride, burners fueling liftoff
and a mile-high ascent to pop the question
you both knew was coming. Below,
three thrilled balloon chasers,
with Nana and Grampy, follow a shadow
the shape of a joyful teardrop.
VI. After the Boil
You take care to filter the amber syrup.
Catching impurities is crucial for future
enjoyment; then the pouring and storing.
You’ve toiled together, boiled together,
blended families, affections, improvising
each dicey step of the adventure.
Now you know sap will always flow
again, buckets never really empty,
and the sweetness lasts the more
you pour into it, the more you share it.
David Sloan
’s debut poetry collection—The Irresistible In-Between—was published by Deerbrook Editions in 2013. A Rising and Other Poems, (Deerbrook), launched in 2020. Honors include The Betsy Sholl Award, the inaugural Maine Poets Society Prize and two Maine Literary awards. After five decades of teaching, most recently at Maine Coast Waldorf High School in Freeport, he is semi-retired, focusing on the joys of grandparenting, gardening, cycling and more regular writing.