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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

Abigail F. Taylor

Winter in Choctaw

Hens bobbed across the barnyard.

You were in his housecoat.

Beans, day old, on the stove again.

The hens made chorus

with jackdaws and red birds,

who stayed in bald trees

and nests made of pretty shards.

You remember young summers

plucking cotton, bloody fingered,

and your brothers barefoot

in the field that was your father’s,

Like the housecoat was your father’s.

You rubbed his tobacco smell in

with your mother’s long sighs

between the threads.

Snow Storm

In the crest of bald oak trees

sunlight burns orange like cane

as it’s pulled and stretched

a heat so bright it’s glorious.


Dozens of them winter fat

flank the snowbanks

like tiny furnaces that sing bold

into the hollow dusk.

Swirling ice

clips the windows

and the stone. Green

and brown varnished pale.

All the warmth has fizzled out

except for the robins that whistle

in the cane of those old trees.

Let Her Laugh
into Your Mouth Again

For Travis

First Kiss.

It tasted like the crab rangoons

heated all day on the buffet line.

And you had the dust

of Dollar Tree candy

stuck in your beard.

In the films (sent

to you in patchwork reels)

the first one is never dirty.

And they aren’t like this

treasure tucked inside

the breath of a minute.

Movie love, so carefully

stitched together,

is always freshly scented.

Teeth free of tobacco stains.

Hair? Perfect.

But true magic?

Oh! That’s in the take-away

boxes of Chinese food

for an impromptu picnic

At the lake.

And she laughs because

the ducks sound like they’re farting,

and because you’ve climbed

up a tree, chasing after her

whim to be fifteen again.

She reaches for a hand,

leans into kiss you,

and to steal the Necco Wafers

from your pocket.

She breaks one in half.

It dissolves between teeth and gum.

I’ll tell you a secret—

She never knew the right way

to love you.


my God,

she tried.

In the Kitchen

Quietly, ever so, Nani leans against the counter

until she’s done with the crossword. Cigarette

in hand. It’s a Virginia Slim that she dutifully

lights up each morning before six. Before breakfast.

Thursday. That clue stumped her. Four across. Ah,

it must be Thor. A thunder god. She remembers

next week, she promised to make a rain quilt for her

grandkids, that would protect them from summer storms.

Love Poem Number—

For David


I think of your nightly ritual

how you fold your durag and place

it in the middle drawer,

brushing those artistic fingers

against the fabric

with the same tenderness

that you hold a camera

a lock of hair

a gun

a clay knife

a dumbbell

deployment papers—

things that have meant nothing

and everything.

Come and hold my naked knees

in this amber dusk,

when the cicadas are

climbing upward, singing.

Singing for that which they burn

and, also, me.

Once I come writhing out of the earth,

it will be for a touch that isn’t mine.

Your touch.

Not just anyone’s.

Abigail F. Taylor is a Texas poet and novelist of Indigenous and Irish descent and has been published in a handful of magazines and online journals. Her debut novella, The Night Begins, with Luna Press Publishing hits the shelves in 2023. She can be found on twitter: @AbigailFTaylor or her blog:

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