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Poetry Winter 2014    fiction    all issues


Debbra Palmer
Bake Sale
& other poems

Ann V. DeVilbiss
Far Away, Like a Mirror
& other poems

Michael Fleming
On the Bus
& other poems

Harold Schumacher
Dying To Say It
& other poems

Heather Erin Herbert
Georgia’s Advent
& other poems

Sharron Singleton
Sonnet for Small Rip-Rap
& other poems

Bryce Emley
College Beer
& other poems

Harry Bauld
On a Napkin
& other poems

George Mathon
Do You See Me Waving?
& other poems

Mariana Weisler
Soft Soap and Wishful Thinking
& other poems

Michael Kramer
Nighthawks, Kaua’i
& other poems

Jill Murphy
& other poems

Cassandra Sanborn
& other poems

Kendall Grant
Winter Love Note
& other poems

Donna French McArdle
White Blossoms at Night
& other poems

Tom Freeman
On Foot, Joliet, Illinois
& other poems

George Longenecker
& other poems

Kimberly Sailor
The Bitter Daughter
& other poems

Rebecca Irene
& other poems

Savannah Grant
And Not As Shame
& other poems

Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Titian Left No Paper Trail
& other poems

Martin Conte
We’re Not There
& other poems

A. Sgroi
Sore Soles
& other poems

Miguel Coronado
& other poems

Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
& other poems

Tracy Pitts
& other poems

Rachel A. Girty
& other poems

Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
& other poems

Margie Curcio
& other poems

Stephanie L. Harper
Painted Chickens
& other poems

Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
& other poems

Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
& other poems

Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
& other poems

Tania Brown
On Weeknights
& other poems

James Ph. Kotsybar
& other poems

Matthew Scampoli
Paddle Ball
& other poems

Jamie Ross
Not Exactly
& other poems

Miguel Coronado



my body is a poem

it sings, reverberating as a tuning fork

reverb               vibrates melodic

             as a buzzing swarm

of lightning bugs;

as in a thunderstorm,

the bugs and frogs come out

to make the world

a damp and sticky place

for us.


my body is a poem

about my city in the rain, covered in fog

covered            just like a child

             under a great mountain

of blankets, white as death;

I was always afraid of winter,

how it roared

& crept up,


my shoulders

in its fog.


my body is a poem

that had trouble sleeping last night, & woke up

startled             by the rustling of bells

             & the subtle click

of a door closing;

the way a funeral proceeds,

culminating in the closing

of the earth, the subtle

clink of a shovel


Adventures of a Lost Soul

             When I was young,

I fashioned a small halo out of hollow stars,

Insect husks and the love of my grandfather

In the rustic shadows of farms

I explored in search of a reason,

Any reason at all to continue exploring


I led an inquisition in my

Grandfather’s backyard

Against an insect insurgency

             Swatting mosquitos in droves

             & capturing buzzing bee drones

             & chasing centipedes away

             & banging on wooden nests

             & watching the clover mites

                          bleed out in a frenzied splatter

             of bright


             I ran away—


             Today, I know

Clover mites are harmless little bloodbugs,

And I’ve long since quit the inquisition,

But I still explore for the same reasons:

             The incentive to keep exploring;

             & so I wear my halo like a badge

             & set on out in search of home,

The place I lost, so long ago,

When I left those forsaken farms.

The Kiosk

red light kisses a neon tavern;

a block away, a bum ambles into the night

his body silhouetted hungry red, a ghost.

he rolls a shopping cart,

filled beyond the brim

with plastic



he’ll cash them all in

for coins—he’ll recycle his life

at a kiosk.

The Sound of Distant Explosions

I am sound


as rocketfire—


is drowned out

by a bonfire

in the night,

the hungry city

pulls the stars down

to earth with




I eat sound

& sleep sound,

             quietly fortifying

             my body-fortress

             to perfection; this vessel

             for my mind and spirit.

Tempus Fugit


in time, you will see

the glowing shell of day shed

into the evening.

(two lovers stroll along an esplanade,

hand in hand in secret hand of another

secret lover, the moon, peeking out

from a curtain of grey clouds.)


in time, you will know

how doors unfold into death,

how curtains cartwheel

light into a room

but also darkness—and why

windows wane away.

(farther down along the river,

an old man falls in love

with the coy moon—

he gazes politely, not wanting

to strip apart her innocence.)


in time, you will be

gone as memory in a

holocaust of thought.

(a slow cloud obscures thought,

and the old man, weary of love,

bows his head ever so slightly

and closes his eyes to sleep—

and then the lovers closed their eyes

to kiss; and then the river closed its eyes

to flow; and then the clouds closed their eyes

and began to rain; and then the moon closed her eyes

and disappeared into the night.)

Miguel Coronado is an aspiring poet currently studying at New York University. He was born in the Dominican Republic, but has spent most of his life raised in New York City. He plans on pursuing a lifelong career in Journalism and Creative Writing after he graduates from college.

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