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
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.
Robins.
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.
But,
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
Sometimes
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: abigailftaylor.wordpress.com