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Poetry Winter 2019    fiction    all issues


Cover Florian Klauer

Meli Broderick Eaton
Three Mississippi
& other poems

Andrea Reisenauer
What quiet ache do you wear?
& other poems

Alex Wasalinko
Two Dreams of Vegas
& other poems

AJ Powell
The Grammar Between Us
& other poems

Emma Flattery
Our Shared Jungle, Mr. Conrad
& other poems

Nathaniel Cairney
The Desert Cometh
& other poems

Sarah W. Bartlett
& other poems

Abigail F. Taylor
Jaybird by the Fence
& other poems

Brandon Hansen
& other poems

Andy Kerstetter
The Inferno Lessons
& other poems

Michael Fleming
Space Walk
& other poems

Richard Cole
Perfect Corporations
& other poems

Susan Bouchard
Circus Performers
& other poems

Edward Garvey
Nine Songs of Love
& other poems

Mehrnaz Sokhansanj
Sea of Detachment
& other poems

Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius
& other poems

Claudia Skutar
Homage II
& other poems

Donna French McArdle
Knitting Sample
& other poems

Megan Skelly
Puzzle Box Ghazal
& other poems

Tess Cooper
& other poems

Greg Tuleja
& other poems

Catherine R. Cryan
& other poems

Edward Garvey

Nine Songs of Love


As if in sync

with a step within

a mirror,

or in time

with a heartbeat

from another time,

I remember you

when I see you.

You are almost

the same.

You your step

your heartbeat each

the same.

You step from

a standing mirror,

this time

wearing a dark

green shirt.


As if you pulled

your kept hair back

or changed its color

from dark to black,

your eyes, your

skin you forget

to change.

Or is it

my eyes

my heart

have stayed

the same?

Recurrent love

is a rhythm

that shapes

a lifetime.

I watch you

walk, the rhythm

of your walk,

and the shape

of your legs

in your black



It’s not that your

black hair

or thin smile

or narrow waist


or even fade.

It’s that your eyes

are a truth deeper

than color.

The layers of time

collapse when you

look at me.

Everything disappears,

everything fades.

When you turn

away, the rigidity

of time returns,

and I cannot

see your



When I see

your eyes,

I do not see

their color.

They are

as colorless

as eternity.

With each glance

I lose balance

and fall into

your eyes.

When I

cannot see

your eyes,

I imagine

their color.

They are the color

of a sunlit

olive tree,

or the crow

that feeds

on the ground.


Could you be

anyone, any


Your cheekbones

do not remind me

of anyone,

but your eyes

remind me

of all women.

Memory is


the shape

of her lips

on yours.

Your body is


by my memory.

Parts of you

I have

always known.

All your earrings


are new.


The image

of you

not the curve

of your neck

runs through

dreams and

into my past.

The further I fall

into previous lives,

the sharper

the image,

the less

it is you.

This image

is colored

not by clothes, skin,

even your eyes.

This image is naked



It is love



You are name-

less, faceless


You belong

to any time

any space.

You are with me

when I wake

sleep, breathe.


with a name,

a face, but not


I know you

as I know

the beginnings

of my childhood


stepping off

a cliff—

nothing more.


An image

remains—it is

but a shadow

in a mirror.

Your back turned

toward me

your face turned

away. The curve

of your back

is an image

in the mirror,

not a reflection.

I have lost you.

As if all


were the same

woman and

all men were

the same man,

I have lost you

to love.


As a feather

in a vacuum

my breath

falls when

I see you.

Your smile

is the sun

that dawns against

my night sky.

My heart

is a sea pulled

by the gravity

within your eyes.

You are real,


with a face,



I say your name

and you turn.

Here and


Edward Garvey I wrote my first short story and poem in the late 1960s and began my college education as a creative writing major at San Francisco State University. The beauty and power of writing lead me to the beauty and power of the natural world, and I temporarily changed careers paths. After a short diversion of 40 years as a scientist, I’m back to writing full time.

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