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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

Writer's Site

Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius



of cicada carcasses

from the base of a

great, wide oak:

I try not to vomit

from the stench. The distant

roar of lawn mowers

at dusk. I start to

collect razor blades

like coins

when the other boys notice


“different.” History class

bores me anyway.

I try like                hell

to make new

friends, but

my ribs are made

of cellophane.

Tooth marks on

ghost white gossamer,

piles of starch

in porcelain. The clack

of high heels

down the

high school’s hallway,

like the duty-bound


tapping his foot

against the linoleum, as he

tells my weeping mother

about the Tylenol.


                                                   Like moonshine bites

the hook of the tongue,

                                                   rubs the throat cherry red

raw, the aftershock is the

                                                   catastrophe: it unfurls from

your teeth like a moth

                                                   from its quiet coma,

bursts into apple blossom

                                                   smithereens. Somehow—

somehow: you tame

                                                   the seizing locusts; seismologists

will study your painted tip—

                                                   toes, balancing, and write papers

on your unbridled poise.

Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius lives in Southern California with his husband and ethereal, unbelievably perfect dog, Benny, having recently relocated from Chicago. His work has appeared in The Dreaded Biscuits, and he is currently querying agents to represent his first novel. When not writing or being an undeserving Benny dad, he tries to catch up on sleep.

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