Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
whitespacefiller
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
Krystle May Statler
to the slow burn
what part of he’s dead don’t I understand
despite holding four boxes of his smile
in a city that returns to its everydayness
over and over and over, the reaping repeats itself
as sirens echo like hunting crows
under a dangerous sun, we can’t slow the clouds
blanketing bodies before a body burns
by time or by fire or both without cause
and who’s left lies about surviving
because we don’t know if the moment
the bullet catches dura mater in a brain
is when the soul escapes a body or
when it can no longer listen to the crying
come back home big brother, please, come—
can’t the ocean swallow “God’s plan”
and eddy grief instead of haunting
a home where vaulted ceilings
make more space for ghosts?
then rain comes and an honest rage
rages after learning he was unarmed
but brother is still dead
while the murderous officer continues to work and breathe
and breathe, and breathe, and breathe, and breathe
in Inglewood with a holster of smoke
I see brother’s body in my dreams
with alive eyes like in aged photographs
playing on the gravel of a playplace
when everything we wanted wasn’t a thing
but a who, with arms to hug back
as we laughed our I love you’s on a yellow bench
hell
I’m unremarkable
in my recent hair
loss. I have
dates on my
calendar for
crying. I do this
between my
7-4. Hell?
Help, I’m
angrier than
I seem. I’m a
bullet in a temple.
Please tell
my mother
I’m tired of
forgiving. Her
denial of loss
is gruesome like
a grieving
mother. At
the mortuary,
a stranger
hugged me like
a mother. Please,
no, I hugged her
back. Is it easier
to daughter
from afar?
I fight relapse
then kiss
a purple unicorn
urn. One photo
shows a family
before the
lacerated mess.
Brother, please
show a sign
you’re still here.
My memories are
losing blood.
Krystle May Statler
(she/her) is a Black-multiracial artist living in Portland, OR. Her works are featured in Poetry From Instructions, poetry.onl, 1455’s Movable Type, The Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, and Cultural Weekly. More of her poetry will be featured in Fourteen Hills, Suburbia Journal, Sepia Quarterly, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine. Krystle’s debut poetic-visual hybrid, Losing Blood, was a finalist for the 2022 CRAFT Hybrid Writing Contest & the 2021 CAAPP Book Prize.