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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

Nia Feren

Neon Orange Tree Trunks

My focus oscillates

between my coffee’s lazy steam swaying,

and three tailored spheres of dust-coated

leaves—either side of a rustic wooden gate—

guarding the grand mansion

deprived of human touch.

A forced garden on a painted pavement stands, autumn’s

touch goes unnoticed—

All grey, grunting ghouls

in and around six little sad trees.

The yarn of caffeinated vapor endlessly,

pirouettes and prances

veiling, then unveiling the trees.

Something bright! Something ablaze!

Fiery orange spews out the trunk

with a curved spine, they rest as though sculpted,

outside the soulless mansion. I see only them—

The drenched laborers taking shade

under the fishnet shadows in their neon

orange vests,

no more drilling infinitely into the pavement the merciless

sun demands

a quiet sight.

How loud their minds must be?

If only my hearing range fits

within their frequencies. I know

not of how long,

or how far they’ve come only

to nest under these fishnet


I know not if the man with

the missing tooth misses

his children,

or if he has a family at all?

I know not of the man

with eyes shut, dreams in


or black or stoic white.

I know not of the story

behind the scar

disappearing into

his vest’s hem.

I know not if they live

grieving the death

of a life they inched

towards, but never lived . . .

I walk towards them,

my hands cold from carrying

chilled mango-juice bottles;

I place them in each jagged palm.

Them and I,

may have different stories with

snowflake shaped scars, tongues

rolling into languages that don’t mix

and races that are miles

apart. Yet, I felt

the warmth, the love, the


that sprouted out of their

crinkled eyes, with gap

toothed smiles louder than

the drilling of all heads


“Thank you, beti,”* smiles the one with the missing tooth.


White noise

after “A Rose from Jericho” by Omar Singer

I lay down in the middle of

the garden in protest the

storm stirs, I stir,

in detest rain slaps my body down.

Ten minutes. Only ten minutes

before her eyebrows frenzy at her grand-daughter cosy, under

the cold, pouring rain.

Ten minutes before she yells,

‘Are you crazy?’, convinced fever would find me.

I seal tight my eyes, the video from Gaza on repeat: Beneath

an anxious roof, an anxious family sit; Missiles fly and

fragility reeks.

I wince at the gasp of the little girl’s voice—scared

blue eyes scavenge safety in her toys her father

scoops her, rosary beads sprint chanting so loud

but the war cry wins!

Dying a thousand deaths before their house crumbles until

voices replace thuds-

a command, an unmusical roar, bang! The

53-year long cycle repeats

I hear it all in white noise, lost in ‘technical’ translation. I hear it

all sizzling, hot inside my head.

I hear it. I collect myself, “Stop crying, be

grateful that it’s not you instead!.” Eyes

flaming, I paralyze in helplessness. Will

withers, whimpers at this thing called


the white noise wrapped in sweet silence.

Birds chirp unaware, the cows moo in reply . . .

The earth invites me, tossing the

honeyed serenity from tree to tree

away from desolation, closer to doomsday I lay,

peacefully in my mossy casket listening to the

conflict being retold

in thousand different voices,

in thousand different media strains. I

listen, and I listen. I hear static.

My grandmother finds me—she

yells, like clockwork.

Nia Feren, a 19-year-old aspiring Indian poet, is currently doing her bachelor’s in English Major, Journalism and Psychology. She writes poems, short stories, articles or any piece of writing that comes her way. Writing for her is a release; a sort of prayer, to say the very least. Being published in PoetrySoup’s anthology (2020) and having won inter-collegiate poetry contests before, she looks forward to publishing an anthology of hers soon. Email: Instagram: antithetical.minded.girl

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