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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

Winner of $1000 for 1st-place-voted Poems

Writer's Site

J.H Yun

Sundays for the Faithful II

They tear into the face of the gape mouthed mackerel,

dislodging the eyes and sharing them, unhinging the jaw so it hangs,

a flap of skin after a potato peeler mishap. I wonder about the assaulting

nature of winter. The way it comes and comes,

and seduction is a violence all its own. Did you drink from the fountain

you weren’t supposed to yet? Even the dumbest of birds are struck

with the same madness that send them all careening south

balding the horizon in winter when the first snow falls

when the bud first bursts or is first burst.

When I was young I couldn’t outrun my lisp or gap toothed whistle.

Outside the sky is curdling over, masking daddy’s view of us,

and the stragglers with their frostbitten wings are thrown down

as if they were born for that. Inside, the boys corral the quiet ones

into the closet, undress them, prick bloodied initials on their flush pink skin.

Tells them hush, Daddy’s too busy spying on the neighbors to hear you anyhow.

Yesenia (Castro Valley’s Jane Doe)

Nine years old, we nose the gully’s edge for flowers

to eat, pant legs rolled to tufts on our bug bitten calves.

Here, we fancy ourselves deer,

and like any good creature of prey, we cringe away from noise,

the mere suggestion of headlights groping the fog

at a distance we can’t quite see over the creek’s open mouth.

We feign fear, but only for fun. For whatever reason,

feeling hunted and liking it. When we come across a vine

of purple flowers, we linger.

Look, honeysuckles, I say, wrong though I don’t know it yet,

and we pull the stems off the violet’s head, lick the nectar

from the apex where the petals gather, suck until we are sated

and leave the gully as humans again. Now forget us.

Here comes the girl with the crown of chestnut hair

followed by a man, but he is not important.

She will lie with the violets for weeks before she’s found,

nestled in a canvas bag like a chrysalis with a throatful of rags,

lovely in the police composite sketch,

she won’t own a name for ten years. But the butterfly clip

in her hair confesses. Clinging to her despite river bed muck,

despite winter, despite cruel hands committing her body to earth,

its sweet, pink adornments insisting She was a child, she was a child,

while the bust made from a study of her bones smiles

soft through the static, right before we change the channel.

J.H Yun is a Korean-American poet, currently completing her MFA at New York University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Narrative, AAWW The Margins, Prelude, and elsewhere.

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