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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

Writer's Site

Tracy Pitts


the ants in the carpet have climbed

onto her head and onto the jars of strawberry preserves

green beans she’d snapped on the back porch

have spilt into the sink from water still filling the bowl

the oven burns doughnuts she was making from buttermilk biscuits

down to six rings of charred bread

the boys are with their granddad at Bull Lake taking

turns holding the golf ball he cut out from a snake’s belly

the snake must have thought it had swallowed an egg

the smoke needs more time to fill the house


I wrap live caterpillars

in corn husks

to feed them to the cows

and follow Pa

to the chicken coop

to watch his hands get pecked

while retrieving eggs

but hide in the truck

when he’s outside

combing underneath the house

with a rake and towel

for a litter of strays

to drown

in the pasture

in the tub

where I was baptized


Underneath each hyacinth is a cat

She digs the graves on her own

The nursery will not charge her for the bulbs

Two were pronounced dead in the same week

Plant two and plant three

A fifth plant will show this spring

She doesn’t like children much or her eldest sister

She remembers her Mother helping them bury

a squirrel that bit her when

she was only five, her sister nine

It was sick and not safe to pet

They all agreed to forgive the rodent

after returning from the emergency room

Together, the three of them sprinkled

the animal with rosemary, thyme, and lavender

then returned it to the earth

“That wasn’t so bad,” she says,

staring into her garden, eating a can

of pork and beans from a crystal flue



those feet over the road

arched and bent the snap of thimble muscle

lifts you like a squall of ink


great old mouth clicks

wet with ancient hunger and parable

charged with rain and famine

don’t caw at my share, brother

you were the last silhouette off the bough

for this downed meal

every bite we

shake with red tinsel between our beaks you

still keep one eye on me

dark, mannequin, inlaid like bad prayer


The Tomatoes Are Good This Year

we sit like people sit

pray like people in prayer

even talk like people talk

there is new death here we

pass the turkey the dressing

the pie in the second week of october

tell stories swap photos like

factory canners when it’s not

our turn we sharpen new exits

does anyone need anything while

i’m up notice the carpet is still green

after all these years wonder

if that mirror was always at

the end of the hallway the plate

of tomatoes reaches him the him

that will be dead by the real thanksgiving

the tomatoes he grew himself he

removes a slice the first slice removed

from the plate takes a bite a giant

little outburst slips right out he doesn’t

cry long or share the future he catches

it quickly says sorry folks the tomatoes

are just that good

he passes the plate to his

left this time around we all

take one we agree

the tomatoes are good

Tracy Pitts is a writer / filmmaker living in Portland, OR.

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