Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Winter 2018    fiction    all issues


Cover Elena Koycheva

Bryce Emley
Asking Father What’s at the End
& other poems

AJ Powell
& other poems

Faith Shearin
& other poems

Claire Van Winkle
& other poems

Sarah W. Bartlett
Summer Cycles
& other poems

Nooshin Ghanbari
& other poems

Meli Broderick Eaton
The Afterlives of Leaves
& other poems

Jeddie Sophronius
& other poems

Paula Bonnell
In Winter, By Rail
& other poems

Addison Van Auken Waters
& other poems

Daniel Sinderson
& other poems

Andrew Allport
All Nature Will Fable
& other poems

Marte Stuart
What an Insult Time Is
& other poems

Matthew Parsons
My Father as an Inuit Hunter
& other poems

Emily Bauer
Gently, Gently
& other poems

Bruce Marsland
A once lovelorn bard’s final journey
& other poems

Beatrix Bondor
Night Makers
& other poems

Isabella Skovira
Lawless Conservation
& other poems

Juan Pablo González
Colombia, 1928
& other poems

Molly Pines
The Pillbug
& other poems

Jamie Marie
On the Lake
& other poems

William A. Greenfield
If You Show Me Yours
& other poems

Bill Newby
Tuesdays at The Seagate's Atlantic Grille
& other poems

Elder Gideon
Male Initiation Rites
& other poems

Joel Holland
Dear Gi-Gi
& other poems

Martha R. Jones
How Lewis Carroll Met Edgar Allan Poe
& other poems

Andrew Allport

All Nature Will Fable,

Said Thoureau, if you lack ability

to express it in language, every rock’s shine

becomes a myth.

Thus armed, our father and son go fishing

a pond below the railroad cut, bright bobbers

lacquered in a green slime.

Just then, an osprey folds its wings and bombs

into the water, rising with a tremble

as a Reno-bound freight train thunders by

above, machine in the garden.

Which machine? Which Garden?

When there was no more beauty, we decided

we could worship the loss of beauty, and so

nothing was lost. Lo, how the water sparkled

under the uranium mine, clear as lucite,

and the sky a monument to ignorance.

Monofilament in the bushes along the shore,

seabirds dying of thirst. Mommy and me

saw it once. Did you see sharks? Yes, some,

I lie. And where was me? You? An egg

we carried in our pale adaptation

of a mystery. You were one

conclusion in the middle of a line,

mine story, the end of life as we knew.

Andrew Allport holds a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Southern California. He is the author of the body of space in the shape of a human, which won the New Issues Prize, as well as a chapbook, The Ice Ship & Other Vessels. His work has appeared in numerous national journals, including Orion, The Antioch Review, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly and Boston Review. He lives in southwest Colorado, where he helps edit Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts, and is frequently mistaken for someone else.

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