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Poetry Winter 2021    fiction    all issues


Andrej Lišakov

Laura Apol
I Take a Realtor through the House
& other poems

Rebekah Wolman
How I Want my Body Taken
& other poems

Devon Bohm
The Word
& other poems

Gillian Freebody
The Right Kind of Woman
& other poems

Anne Marie Wells
Gravestone Flowers
& other poems

Laura Turnbull
& other poems

Andre F. Peltier
A Fistful of Ennui
& other poems

Peter Kent
Reflections on the Late Nuclear Attack on Boston
& other poems

Carol Barrett
Canal Poem #8: Hides
& other poems

Alix Lowenthal
Abortion Clinic Waiting Room
& other poems

Latrise P. Johnson
From My Women
& other poems

Brenna Robinson
& other poems

may panaguiton
& other poems

Elizabeth Farwell
The Life That Scattered
& other poems

Bill Cushing
Two Stairways
& other poems

Richard Baldo
A Note to Prepare You
& other poems

Blake Foster
Aubade from the Coast
& other poems

Bernard Horn
& other poems

Harald Edwin Pfeffer
Still stiff with morning cold
& other poems

Nia Feren
Neon Orange Tree Trunks
& other poems

Everett Roberts
A Mourning Performance
& other poems

Alaina Goodrich
The Way I Wander
& other poems

Olivia Dorsey Peacock
the iron maiden and other adornments
& other poems

Writer's Site

Devon Bohm

The Roosting Heron
Turns Her Head to See Me, Too

Today, a heron flew

low over the man-made

pond in Elizabeth Park:

his plummy feathers,

his long, sleek body,

his apology to the wind

for leaving it behind.

My hair is turning over

into grey, silver, really,

weaving through the dark

like tinsel or the light

early morning off the water

we chose to place here.

I believe myself hardened

to this world until I see

flowers growing askance,

bowed by the weight

of their own wilderness,

dew pearled on their faces

reaching up to the sun.

The wet of the grass

has soaked me through,

lying here to try to

remember what it is

to be sated, listening

to the hush of petals

whispering their way

through the sky as pale

pink snow, as white hairs

grow in thicker, like

fishing line, as a reminder

as why and how

to stay alive.

I remember reading

a story about a fig thief

punished, his head

chopped off in

yellow-brown sand.

No jury, no trial,

no one to stand up

for him or mourn him

and that’s just the way

the world was. Is. Still.

I know how he felt,

some days, to hunger like

that, to simply want

something against your

mouth, tongue, inside

your body where all

the pain is hiding,

the inside of the fig

as blood and tissue

fading out to the color

of the—last look—

the sand. Almost casually,

I watch the heron huddle

in the reeds, maybe she,

maybe warming a clutch

of eggs. The earth’s

crust shivers delighted

and I try to sleep, just

until spring is done

trying to become.

Which is Now

In the interim (which is now,)

I will leave my cravings

undefined and simply recognize

the myriad hunger. I will

remember terror is a word

meant to describe angels.

I will be as dust on an

orchard apple’s skin

is called a bloom.

I will herald in an era

of being kinder to myself.

The Word

I have no words today, so I try

to let the world provide them.

I listen. I learn that nothing out

here is monotonous, is vacant.

Everything is alive and breathing,

lungs of the wind rustling the petals

of the peony, the dog’s fur in furrows

down his back. The sky is getting

ready for rain, its mouth closing

ruthlessly, all colors chased off

for the steely grey I can almost see

my reflection in. I don’t know when

I realized how much of my life

feels like waiting, like I’m hoarding

up the time where I’m living and

the rest renounces itself, retreats,

holds its own knees against its own

chest. A hawk cries out, high above

me, louder than a human, blue murder,

but hawks don’t have words like that,

rituals like that, cowards like that.

You can’t be a coward if all you’re

trying to do is survive. I wonder if

the beets are ready to be dug from

the ground like dirty hearts or if they

need more time to become. The pears

are already falling, making soft, wet

collisions with the ground and the air

smells like cider. We could call this

misadventure: it isn’t going how I need

it to, I needed answers or something

like them, I needed help. The tines of

the trees reach up into grey and the first

drops of rain kick up dust, make new

hieroglyphs I can’t read as they move

the fresh green of the leaves. I have no

words today so I asked the world to give

them to me. The world said, I’ll give you

one, the rest you’ll need to gather yourself.

What is the word? Come closer, I’ll

whisper it. The word is simple, the word

is nothing but: listen. I’ll be quiet now.

I’ll be waiting. I’ll do it world, I’ll


Tupelo and Honey

I wanted to be good.

I never wanted to go

to anyone on my knees.

But to know joy is

to know all aspects

of living—even, especially,

the painstaking ones.

I don’t know what

I think of ideas like

god God god, but I do

know this:

My worship, near silent

and shuffling its way

through the Pine and

Sweet Gum Tupelo

rings out in the still

air of August,

paws at the ground

and the sky as if

to say I am sorry

for ever believing

I didn’t owe this world

anything, when the truth

is more complicated.

I owe it simply

my whole, beautiful

life lived on my knees

because I am joyful

and praising

and unafraid.

The Long Year

Woke up

into the flickering

of the sun’s


day blotted out

into a red gloaming

by whatever new disaster

this year has decided

to unleash.

I sat down

among the fireweed’s


in the field

and remembered

how to pray.

It’s only

two words,

if you want

to learn.


Just say:

thank you.

Just say

thank you

and then

do the work

of learning

how to mean it.

Devon Bohm’s work has been featured in publications such as Labrys, Spry, Necessary Fiction, Hole in the Head Review, Horse Egg Literary, The Graveyard Zine, and Sunday Mornings at the River’s 365 Days of Covid anthology. Her first book, Careful Cartography, was released in 2021 by Cornerstone Press. Follow her on Instagram @devonpoem or @devonbohm, or visit her website to learn more.

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