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Poetry Winter 2015    fiction    all issues


Cover Peter Rawlings

J. H Yun
& other poems

Colby Hansen
Killing Jar #37
& other poems

Melissa Bond
Freud's Asparagus
& other poems

Jane Schulman
When Krupa Played Those Drums
& other poems

Susan F. Glassmeyer
First Moon of a Blue Moon Month
& other poems

Melissa Tyndall
& other poems

Micah Chatterton
& other poems

Emily Graf
& other poems

Kate Magill
LV Winter, 2015
& other poems

Michael Fleming
Meeting Mrs. Ping
& other poems

Richard Parisio
Brown Creeper
& other poems

Jennifer Leigh Stevenson
Circe in Business
& other poems

Laurel Eshelman
& other poems

Barry W. North
Molotov Cocktail of the Deep South
& other poems

Charles C. Childers
& other poems

Ricky Ray
A Way to Work
& other poems

Cassandra Sanborn
& other poems

Linda Sonia Miller
Full Circle
& other poems

J. Lee Strickland
Anna's Plague
& other poems

Erin Dorso
In the Kitchen
& other poems

Holly Lyn Walrath
Behind the Glass
& other poems

Jeff Lewis
Charles Ives, A Connecticut Yankee
& other poems

Karen Kraco
Shaker Village at Pleasant Hill
& other poems

Rafael Miguel Montes
& other poems

Susan F. Glassmeyer

Hercules Visits My Kitchen

Tonight, waiting for scones to rise in the oven,

the scent of warming yeast and cream

filling the room, I sit down at the table

and flip open the new Audubon to learn:

Carrion beetles

using organs of smell in their antennae

can locate a mouse within an hour of its death

and from as far away as two miles.

After flying to the carcass, they drop

to the ground, crash through the litter,

burrow under the body, and by heft

of their magnificent orange backs

lift the mouse remains like mini sons of Zeus,

flip and roll it several feet to a final resting place

where the beetles bulldoze the dirt

and bury the mouse deep under the soil.

(This, all done at night to prevent

rival flies from laying their eggs.) The beetles

then strip the mouse of its fur, covering

the carrion ball with a jelly-like goo,

a refuge of food for their own larvae

to feed upon.

There’s more I haven’t told you

but the oven timer is ringing

so I must grab my spatula to flip the hot scones

into a pine grass basket to cool . . . breakfast

fuel for my family rising hungry at dawn.

Seeing Movement

For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.
— Carl Sagan

In his workshirt dark from sweat

the gardener lays down his hedger

to kneel gingerly in thick ivy.

With the hands of Kuan Yin

he flutters the damaged bird up

to his chest, whispering to it.

While Holding a Shivering Toad in My Hands

I thought about last night’s mouse

rattling inside the live trap

in the kitchen drawer.

I can’t bring myself to kill

mice anymore. Tried it once

in Michigan. The cottage, quiet

as a book when the snap trap

sprung along the baseboard.

That contraption flew into the air

like a deranged bird pinching in half

the stunned mouse who only wanted

a dumb piece of cheese.

I thought only women standing on chairs

in cartoons screamed at mice

running along the floor.

I did not know a mouse would squeal

when it died like that. I did not know

I would scream.

First Moon of a Blue Moon Month

Tonight while she’s asleep

come through the kitchen window above the stove.

Follow the path of her belongings.

Climb the stairs

without making them creak.

Enter the room of her refuge.

Here she has tumbled with night into bed.

Hover awhile.

Let your roundness shimmer above her own.

Be a chandelier to her longings.

Study her lips,

two languages for truth in her sleep.

If you slip under the covers without waking her,

she will lean into you until you are full again.

She can never be touched too lightly.

Parting Word

An attendant props you up, cheerfully

rolls you to a table for a last meal.

Doesn’t that look good, sweetheart?

It doesn’t. I offer roses and a bag

of dark kisses though we both know

they don’t make sense anymore.

What took you so long, you ask, squinting

at me through your good eye. I hold up

your head in the hammock of my hand.

Quiet resumes. No mention of love. You

ask is my other hand on your leg? Yes.

Susan F. Glassmeyer is a on the Poetry Diet, grazing all day long. She has two chapbooks available: Body Matters (Pudding House Publications, 2010) and Cook’s Luck (Finishing Line Press, 2012). Susan is the founder of Little Pocket Poetry and “April Gifts” at Ms. Glassmeyer is a somatic therapist and co-director of the Holistic Health Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.

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