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
Talya Jankovits
I Fall Down/I Fall Short
1.
My husband has saved two people’s lives.
Lying in bed at night,
his heart pumps
a drumbeat
into the darkness
my cheek fitting
into the crest of his chest.
He is awake.
He is not.
I talk about the usual:
The lit agent said no.
The baby has a runny nose.
The eldest finished the fourth Harry Potter.
And what did he think of dinner?
2.
When I was pregnant
with my second,
I fell on the sidewalk
coming home from shul.
I was in four-inch heels
carrying our toddler.
He was righting
all three of us,
before I even
realized
how hard I’d hit the ground.
3.
I only wear flats now.
I still don’t know CPR.
I still don’t know the Heimlich maneuver.
I have four daughters.
4.
There were ten of us in the Sukkah.
Across the table,
the guest in the button-down shirt
started choking, gasping, grasping.
No one moved.
He coughed without sound.
He pointed to his throat.
I screamed, Daniel—
namesake of he who
was thrown
into the lion’s den.
He ran out to the table,
stood behind the man,
wrapped his arms around him
pushed into his chest.
After he saved his life,
everyone resumed eating.
5.
He cried for me,
invoking my name
like a prayer
into the answering machine.
Please, please.
Tali means dew, means morning,
means reliable.
He had just saved his
eleven-year-old brother’s life.
He had to perform CPR in the ICU.
He noticed the heartbeat had stopped
when no one else did.
He called me after, called out, Tali, Tali, please.
I wasn’t there.
6.
We drive carpool.
We watch Superstore.
We argue over who gets the better
spot on the couch.
I know the shape of his jaw,
the scar on his chin.
The way his eyes water when he’s tired.
I know the sound of his sleep.
The smell of his coffee
brewed minutes before I wake.
We go about our everyday.
Two people are still alive because of him.
Imagine A World
Without Raging Hormones.
I’d rather the ticklish kiss
of the many legged, wayward
Black cottonwood seed.
Fibrous weaving of soft fuzz—
early summer’s frosty mirage.
Dioecious, these thick lenticel
covered trunks. Female flowering,
rotund-ovate: a forest menstruation of
floating seeds aimless and certain
towards nowhere and
everywhere—
hungry to germinate,
populate the world with
green heart shaped leaves.
This would be preferable
to the wet kiss of a mouth
dirtied and chapped,
dehydrated of kindness,
compassion, a chunk
of earth gripped tight
in carnivorous teeth,
rabid shaking
and shaking
to tear off a greater piece
until the whole of it is
nothing
but rot robbing the hairy fruits
of the dimorphic Balsam Poplar of
anything
to plant its rooting hormones.
Growing
I show her how to
grasp the handle,
glide the blade
sharp and precise
upwards on the same
leg that I once stretched
rolls of fat apart to fish
out bits of grey fuzzy
lint that she collected
there like she grew to
collect seashells from
shore sides, the Atlantic
to the Pacific. One nick.
Blood balls, slides
downwards over a
bulged ankle joint
and I think this
is how we all got
here—
from bleeding.
from wonder.
Talya Jankovits
’ work has appeared in a number of literary journals. Her short story, “Undone,” in Lunch Ticket, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poem, “My Father Is A Psychologist,” in BigCityLit, was nominated for both a Pushcart prize and The Best of the Net. Her Poem, “Guf,” was the recipient of the Editor’s Choice Award in Arkana Magazine and nominated for the Best of Net. She holds her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University and resides in Chicago with her husband and four daughters.