Poetry Winter 2017 fiction all issues
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Cover Thought-Forms
Laura Apol
On My Fiftieth Birthday I Return
& other poems
Jihyun Yun
Aubade
& 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
Iris
& other poems
Timothy Walsh
Metro Messenger
& other poems
Gabriel Spera
Scratch
& other poems
Zoë Harrison
Pattee Creek
& other poems
AJ Powell
Blanket
& 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
Costume
& 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
Helen Yeoman-Shaw
The Mug My Aunt Made
Tonight I sip tea from a mug
my aunt threw on a wheel. Tree rings
of brown clay stretch up, curve into
the lip. Below, waves of sky blue
melt into olive as if they
hug the mountain range at whose feet
my aunt built her dream house with her
lover. Further down, colors blend:
rose, mauve, indigo, sienna
streaking across the bottom like
the Painted Desert. I fit three
fingers through the thick handle. There’s
a pressed platform on which to rest
my thumb. I look like my aunt. That’s
why she sent her mug home with me.
Or maybe it’s her secret way
of telling me that she also
knows how it feels to have your heart
pulled apart then gloriously
reattached, but only after
years of scoring and slipping. As
I enfold the same piece of earth
my aunt embraced, I replay the
message from my mother, study
the mug’s glazed palette, wonder if
these particular shades exist
in the Mediterranean
where my aunt was celebrating
her ten year anniversary
and if the hues bled together
when the blood vessel in her brain
burst.
Calling Long Distance
When I call you today
I’ll imagine you sitting
at your kitchen table
hillsides of your beloved
Heidelberg wrapping around you
sea pinks blooming on your balcony
as they do in May.
I’m sure Uncle Johnny will answer
neither of us surprised by the other’s voice
after all, it is your birthday.
We’ll talk for an hour or so
without mentioning your name
but you’ll hang between us like a sheet
draped over a clothesline
a lifetime of memories flapping softly
brushing against us as we reach for pins
to keep you from blowing away.
When I Leave
I will leave the moon with you.
She will be your night-light
pushing darkness away
so you may sink safely into slumber.
She will be your keeper of time.
You may count the days
through her opening and closing eye
your grief gradually waning.
She will be your shield
deflecting the sun’s blazing revelations
softening his sharp glare so you may
gaze into the heavens unblinded.
She will be your balloon
her beam a silken string.
Whenever you ache, reach high
and she will lift you up to me.
Persephone
Each spring, I bring my
mom daffodils, embrace her,
palms spilling sunlight.
Night Blooming Jasmine
Your hands, two wings
shivering with summer heat
spread like a butterfly across my back, and I
unfold
arch my opalescent face toward the waxing moon
open my mouth, pour my delirious sweetness
into the sticky night.
Helen Yeoman-Shaw
is a Los Angeles based poet and member of Writers at Work. This is her first time participating in the Sixfold process, and she relishes her experience as both educational and inspiring. She moves into 2018 as a newly unemployed newlywed and enthusiastically waits to see what her future holds.