Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
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Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Aaron Glover
Before There Was The Beginning
a woman hovered in space
a caboodle of elements besides
she was restless
she wanted to make something
but did not know how to begin
she dipped her fingers into a compartment
& traced the shape of a planet
but, bored, tossed it aside
in she dipped & again she traced
orbits, suns, asteroids—shapes
we have no words to name
but through which she could extend
her slender arm & wrap everything
to her breast still
it was not right
tossed aside, tossed aside
a great galaxy jumbled & sprawling
piling up behind her
she looked over at what she had made
how oceans were forming
how dust was aligning itself into rings
how amebae were beginning to cogitate
& she was ambivalent
& her afternoon tea had grown cold
after a time her wife approached
& seeing as wives often do
the woman’s frustration with her work
the wife said
come here love
let me gently comb your hair
with my fingers
I will pour you a glass of wine
& while the lasagna bakes
you can tell me of your day
that night the woman could not sleep
as she rolled side to side
she thought again of oceans
of saline wombs for life
mercurial moons of mercury quicksilver
of sliver limpid on her fingertips
as she had drawn ice storms
& the eyes of great fish
rolling to her wife she called
softly quiet as a distant star her name
hoping she would open
hoping magic might alight within her name
but on her wife slept
the woman knew for herself, then, she was alone
knew it was hers alone to find
the diamond of her own pressure
the grass hers to draw from the soil
the eggs to form
the tiny muscles within the eggs
to break the thinnest porcelain walls once
the time came
time
time was hers to count, to line
she sighed drawing a sheet of night around her
& floated away to begin
Stones In Prayer
these stones are praying
not all stones pray
& not all stones are praying now
but here
in a place with many names throughout time
they pray
they do not pray for careers
for sturdy as they may be
no stone wishes to become a building
in the makeshift cities of men
they do not pray new things
no new television to invite other stones to watch
no purse in which to place articles of stony ablution
they do not even pray company
for stones cannot imagine themselves singly
since stone begets stone
& only great mysteries
like water or wind or
natural laws with various names
(which attempt to bound their power
but cannot)
only mighty forces like these
& time
can separate stones from themselves
like tarantulas sanctified by stars
like saguaros blessed by rain
like the rat snake & pygmy mouse
in transubstantive embrace
this is my body given for you
do this in remembrance of me
The Measure of Storms
hold a ruler to the sky
how we persist
chevron raindrops against tin
sighing wooden porch slats
the peat of wet dirt
sharp as grass-stained denim
check with Gary & the Doppler
learn a watch isn’t a warning
isn’t a summer thunderstorm
plains girls learn how they are alone
learn about loneliness
from overheard conversations
late night kitchen table talk
how to buy school supplies
how to send a heart outside a body
into the world with more
than family photos & the body borne
to gauge & weather what’s coming
to keep her marrow tender
‘Rita’s Wedding ’56’
I
It must have been lovely—
black & white life.
Not always, as living
is never always lovely—
the cruelty of aging,
the knife of disappointment—
but to have been younger,
for less history,
the novelty of photographs,
a certainty of unknowing,
for finites, for hope.
Future clear as wedding vows.
II
Card stock lies, sepia beauty,
over-simple, partial truths
performed smiles, mostly
happy families, certain moments—
before rain arrived, before
Uncle James got drunk, threw up,
before tear stained faces in the side yard,
all glass green grass & amber light—
however brief, real as grace,
as marriage, as a magic trick.
III
There’s no escaping
fractions of fact, the permanence
what’s revealed; something,
maybe one small thing,
how young your mother was, how proud,
whose nose you got, whose smile,
how much she loved you there, there,
that moment,
how much hope she had for you.
And maybe she didn’t.
And maybe she did.
On Transformation
(for Emmy, 2019)
your office will be field
nothing to confine you but horizon
your desk a jut of sandstone in a gorge
only the hazard of weather to brook
the details of your young life—its shift
the stretch of your muscles
what will carve your day
how dawn & set of sun
will render your face in compliment—
present themselves as new again
not so much to mystify but
demand greater precision
from the figure of your history
speak yourself aloud
do not be muted by convention
or bound by doubt
mark any pangs of terror you feel
& once considered abandon them
for shadow depends on what shines elsewhere
no time to obscure what has been
you emerge from a silicone-chipped chamber
a great movement of things
the reveal of new passages
an unfamiliar instrument waits
for the pulse of fingers
feel the great organ of the natural world
air & light sustaining
you cannot escape the brilliant crush of your life
do not search for some other source
it is you who are shining
Aaron Glover
’s poetry has previously appeared in Thimble Literary Magazine, the Virginia Quarterly Review, Mad Swirl, Illya’s Honey, the Red River Review, and elsewhere. His chapbook Bio Logic (INF Press) was published in 2017. From 2011-2016, he was on faculty in the Department of Performance Studies at Texas A&M University. As a performer and director, he worked throughout Texas and the Great Plains. He holds an MFA from the University of Houston, and currently lives in Dallas.