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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

Brenna Robinson

provisions, these

provisions, these. expired

as they are, they remain,

a tattered blanket over

icy toes: better than

nothing. a can of tomato

soup, rusty at the rim,

admired and retired

to its place of honor:

the back bottom shelf

abutting the water

heater. how many

false prophets it lived

through, it deserves

to outlive one more.

preserve this historical

monument, simply too

good to eat, aged to

perfection since reagan,

yes, a useful reminder

to rotate our stock.

maybe someday we’ll
fill these tunnels in

this is the passage where

I tunneled out from my dread,

never believing it wouldn’t

collapse. this is where I

learned my fingernails

aren’t strong but brittle, I say,

as I lift the bottom of your

shirt and touch my calloused

nubs to that soft skin you

never show the sun.

I don’t know if I met you

down here in the catacombs

or if it was when I emerged

under the star-specked sky

that I first saw you standing

right where I needed you

to be, but we come here

sometimes to remember

what it was like before.

I say, look, this is the alcove

where I stopped digging,

rolled myself into the fetal

position and slept for weeks.

you say, see, this is where

I sat staring at my own knees

until I heard thunder above

me, and then I cried

thinking of all that mud.

what a privilege it is now

to be a visitor, to go home

together, with you fitting

perfectly into the crook

of my arm, soft and warm


she knows what it is to make a pantry

out of a storm cellar or declare a bomb

shelter nothing more than a hole

this is somewhere her fears wanted

her to be, and she was so focused

on winning against them she forgot

they were built for real dangers

It was the left, though, wasn’t it

And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out,

and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for

thee that one of thy members should perish, and

not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

—Matthew 5:29

You stood with us, rosebush adjacent,

crooked head, nothing if not asymmetrical.

Parts of you were absolutely missing, I

couldn’t fail to notice, your connection

to us: tenuous. Their mouths said I

could trust you, their eyes were not

so sure. Your eye: alone and lonely.

Did you merely get born again or exorcise

the part of your brain that made you

a guy who’d beat his wife nigh to death?

I knew: grandfathers were supposed

to have workshops, farms, apple orchards,

were meant to give presents beyond

Bible verses. They should have something

to offer besides a heavy sense of unease.

Brenna Robinson is originally from Holland, Michigan, and has a BA in Creative Writing from Knox College. She resides in Indiana with her partner, three cats, and an iguana.

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