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Poetry Winter 2017    fiction    all issues

Cover of Poetry Winter 2017 issue


Cover Thought-Forms

Laura Apol
On My Fiftieth Birthday I Return
& other poems

Jihyun Yun
& other poems

Jamie Ross
Red Jetta
& other poems

Sarah Blanchard
Carolina Clay
& other poems

lauren a. boisvert
Save a Seat for Me in the Void
& other poems

Faith Shearin
A Pirate at Midlife
& other poems

Helen Yeoman-Shaw
Calling Long Distance
& other poems

Sarah B. Sullivan
& other poems

Timothy Walsh
Metro Messenger
& other poems

Gabriel Spera
& other poems

Zoë Harrison
Pattee Creek
& other poems

AJ Powell
& other poems

Alexa Poteet
The Man Who Got off the Train Between Madrid and Valencia
& other poems

Marcie McGuire
Still Birth
& other poems

Kim Drew Wright
Elephants Standing
& other poems

Michael Jenkins
The Garden Next Door
& other poems

Nicky Nicholson-Klingerman
& other poems

Doni Faber
Man Moth
& other poems

M. Underwood
In Other Words
& other poems

Carson Pynes
Diet Coke
& other poems

Bucky Ignatius
Something Old, . . .
& other poems

Violet Mitchell
Deleting Emails the Week After Kevin Died
& other poems

Sam Collier
Nocturne in an Empty Sea
& other poems

Meryl Natchez
Equivocal Activist
& other poems

William Godbey
A Corn Field in Los Angeles
& other poems

Don Hogle
Austin Wallson Confesses
& other poems

Zoë Harrison

Pattee Creek

A week after you died, a fox, hungry white

laid flat in knapweed’s purple flowers his ears

strained towards the criss crossed wires you’d strung

with rattlesnake hides, brass washers.

Beyond the mesh

were the chickens and below the chickens

rust, late watermelon rinds,

straw strangled with feathers.

Will I rot, my body tucked under sanded clay

my bones another stone beneath the yard’s fruit tree

fallen apple war drums

against my ribs?

As he crept across nude roots

the flock’s clucks were

low warning

their plumage raising like parasols.


The cerulean shoelace you hung

danced from the wooden coop

as paws scraped the soil.

When the wire gave there was nowhere to flee,

beaks twittered and cracked like June bug wings,

their feathered heads limp.

Inside the kitchen walls were ledger, the corners sellotaped

seams, curved like origami balloons. Your shotgun was hung

in the wardrobe, you’d never shown me how to shoot.

Zoë Harrison, a twenty-year-old Montanan who has only seen a Broad-leaved forest once and found it quite too short. Though she would go back in a second if it meant escaping the gray slush of a February rain.

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