{"id":236,"date":"2015-03-15T10:00:32","date_gmt":"2015-03-15T14:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=236"},"modified":"2026-02-04T17:12:09","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T22:12:09","slug":"volume-two-issue-one","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=236","title":{"rendered":"<strong><p style=\"color: #000000\">Volume Three, Issue 1 (2015)<\/p><\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><script><br \/>\n  (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){<br \/>\n  (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),<br \/>\n  m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m)<br \/>\n  })(window,document,'script','https:\/\/www.google-analytics.com\/analytics.js','ga');<\/p>\n<p>  ga('create', 'UA-60884670-1', 'auto');<br \/>\n  ga('send', 'pageview');<\/p>\n<p><\/script><br \/>\n<a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/03\/Rats-Ass-Summer-2015.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/03\/Rats-Ass-Summer-2015-231x300.jpg\" alt=\"Rat's Ass Summer 2015\" width=\"231\" height=\"300\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-821\" srcset=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/03\/Rats-Ass-Summer-2015-231x300.jpg 231w, https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/03\/Rats-Ass-Summer-2015.jpg 609w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 231px) 100vw, 231px\" \/><\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a id=\"poets\"><\/a><br \/>\nWelcome to the Summer 2015 issue of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review. &nbsp;During our spring submission period we received hundreds of poems from all over the world. We read them all, and we gave many of them lengthy consideration, eventually settling on the collection which appears below.  As we promised in our submission guidelines, we have undoubtedly rejected some good poems. &nbsp;However, we have selected forty-eight which are excellent, and we are pleased to present them to you.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe forty-four individual poets have been a delight to work with.  Some are well established and have a long string of credits behind them; others are experiencing their first publication on this page.  All are poets whose work you will see in other publications in the future.  The poets have been invaluable in their assistance to one another and to me in the process of bringing this issue into the light.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIf you came here looking for a particular poet or poem, the links below will get you where you want to go.  But don&#8217;t stop at that; wander around a little.  You may never come here again; enjoy yourself for a few minutes.  I think you will find your time well spent and well rewarded.  &#8211;Editor<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Poets:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHeather <a href=\"#Altfeld\">Altfeld<\/a>, Svea <a href=\"#Barrett\">Barrett<\/a>,&nbsp;Giuseppe Martino <a href=\"#Buonaiuto\">Buonaiuto<\/a>, Chelsea <a href=\"#Callas\">Callas<\/a>, Wendy Taylor <a href=\"#Carlisle\">Carlisle<\/a>,&nbsp;Susan <a href=\"#Deer Cloud\">Deer Cloud<\/a>,&nbsp;Rosemarie <a href=\"#Dombrowski\">Dombrowski<\/a>,&nbsp;Victoria <a href=\"#Dym\">Dym<\/a>,&nbsp;Arika <a href=\"#Elizenberry\">Elizenberry<\/a>,&nbsp;Jim <a href=\"#Ferguson\">Ferguson<\/a>,&nbsp;James <a href=\"#Fowler\">Fowler<\/a>,&nbsp;Neil <a href=\"#Fulwood\">Fulwood<\/a>,&nbsp;Michael <a href=\"#Gause\">Gause<\/a>,&nbsp;Patricia L. <a href=\"#Goodman\">Goodman<\/a>,&nbsp;Mitchell <a href=\"#Grabois\">Grabois<\/a>,&nbsp;Brit <a href=\"#Graham\">Graham<\/a>,&nbsp;John <a href=\"#Haugh\">Haugh<\/a>,&nbsp;Martin <a href=\"#Heavisides\">Heavisides<\/a>,&nbsp;TJ <a href=\"#Heffers\">Heffers<\/a>,&nbsp;Marianna <a href=\"#Hofer\">Hofer<\/a>,&nbsp;Erica <a href=\"#Hoffmeister\">Hoffmeister<\/a>,&nbsp;Shareen <a href=\"#Knight\">Knight<\/a>,&nbsp;Kaye <a href=\"#Linden\">Linden<\/a>,&nbsp;Jessica <a href=\"#Lindsley\">Lindsley<\/a>,&nbsp;Katharyn Howd <a href=\"#Machan\">Machan<\/a>,&nbsp;Tony <a href=\"#Magistrale\">Magistrale<\/a>,&nbsp;MD <a href=\"#Marcus\">Marcus<\/a>,&nbsp;Michael <a href=\"#Mark\">Mark<\/a>,&nbsp;Tim <a href=\"#Mayo\">Mayo<\/a>,&nbsp;Bruce <a href=\"#McRae\">McRae<\/a>,&nbsp;Stephen <a href=\"#Mead\">Mead<\/a>,&nbsp;Megan <a href=\"#Merchant\">Merchant<\/a>,&nbsp;Tracy <a href=\"#Mishkin\">Mishkin<\/a>, Jocelyn <a href=\"#Moore\">Moore<\/a>,&nbsp;Kenneth <a href=\"#Pobo\">Pobo<\/a>,&nbsp;Sharon <a href=\"#Scholl\">Scholl<\/a>,&nbsp;Terri <a href=\"#Simon\">Simon<\/a>, Catherine F. <a href=\"#Simpson\">Simpson<\/a>,&nbsp;Julie <a href=\"#Steiner\">Steiner<\/a>,&nbsp;Paul m. <a href=\"#Strohm\">Strohm<\/a>,&nbsp;Susan Laura <a href=\"#Sullivan\">Sullivan<\/a>,&nbsp;J.A. <a href=\"#Sutherland\">Sutherland<\/a>,&nbsp;S. <a href=\"#Triella\">Triella<\/a>,&nbsp;Ian <a href=\"#Walker\">Walker<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Altfeld\"><\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<hr>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Poems:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Heather Altfeld<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNOTES FOR THE EPILOGUE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWho knows how it will happen.<br \/>\nOne minute you are opening your throat<br \/>\nto gulp the evening\u2019s pinot, and the next<br \/>\nit spills through your teeth fast as clown wine.<br \/>\nOr the defective weeble of the sabot<br \/>\nyou were teaching your niece to sail<br \/>\nbobbles and sinks in the bay,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand your ankle is trapped around a stray piece<br \/>\nof heavy rope. You can hope it is not<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA) a gardening rake flipped wrong side up into your heart,<br \/>\nB) anything charred\/blackened<br \/>\nthat takes your kitties too, or<br \/>\nC) compliments of an angry power tool.<br \/>\nSome nice hypothermia perhaps,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\naccompanied by a delicious side of Percocet,<br \/>\na long wander in the snow followed by a sleepy dream<br \/>\nof roast goose. So, after the white light blinks its beacon<br \/>\nand you listen to your own elegiac voice-over,<br \/>\nyou realize that you were meant for this.<br \/>\nIt is the role you\u2019ve been planning for<br \/>\nall of your life. Now it\u2019s your special morning,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand you\u2019re decked in black\u2014you look good,<br \/>\nthough the dress is long, no doubt<br \/>\nyour mother\u2019s doing. If your lover<br \/>\nhad his way it would be that black lacy thing<br \/>\nyou bought from the back room at Camouflage,<br \/>\nthe pleasure cuffs cabled behind your back.<br \/>\nAnd there\u2019s definitely too much blush<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\non your cheeks; you look like a loud valentine<br \/>\nor the girl in the Riunite commercial<br \/>\nwho\u2019d drunk so much she\u2019d turned<br \/>\ninto a zinfandel. It\u2019s a potluck, which you hate,<br \/>\nthe theme being <em>it\u2019s better with butter<\/em>,<br \/>\nbut your friends were wary of dying<br \/>\nand so nobody salted anything,<br \/>\nand there wasn\u2019t enough to go around,<br \/>\nexcepting the vegan quinoa.<br \/>\nBehind the white hilly oak<br \/>\ntwo Mormons in long underwear<br \/>\nwhisper your name and convert you by proxy,<br \/>\nwhile the rabbi, in accordance<br \/>\nwith the sorrow doctrine,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbanters about your life as a Jew<br \/>\nand your silly love for the crustacean;<br \/>\nwarbling a little in Yiddish<br \/>\njust like you would have done<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhad you been to rabbinical banter training.<br \/>\nWhy aren\u2019t there gifts? You really wanted some gifts.<br \/>\nA few silver parcels of mirth,<br \/>\nsome nice sateen sheets. Le Creuset cookware<br \/>\nand a purple cape and a pear-wood pentatonic recorder.<br \/>\nSomeone you don\u2019t even know<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbound your poems in a cruddy little book<br \/>\nat Kinko\u2019s. You take note of who is missing.<br \/>\nThis isn\u2019t the usual crowd from your dinner parties.<br \/>\nSo many didn\u2019t show up due to sorrow,<br \/>\nand the opening of the new bakery downtown.<br \/>\nYou\u2019re flanked by bureaucrats waiting<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor your social security number, the waitress<br \/>\nfrom the Cozy Diner who remembers when<br \/>\nyou popped her tire by backing into her too hard,<br \/>\nand a fellow lecturer who says how funny you were,<br \/>\neven though (ha!) she\u2019s glad she\u2019ll get your classes.<br \/>\nYour father gives a speech so long<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthat everyone departs in a flurry,<br \/>\nbut he says one line about the complicated loch<br \/>\nof loneliness you\u2019ve left in his landscape<br \/>\nthat you wish you could have stolen for a poem.<br \/>\nAll you had really wanted as a send-off<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwas one of those amazing rains<br \/>\nthat only happen in Texas and Terre Haute<br \/>\nwhere dimes are thrown down from the stars,<br \/>\nand a boy who would kiss your dead forehead<br \/>\nand play <em>Stairway to Heaven<\/em> on his acoustic guitar<br \/>\nas you rode that little escalator upward,<br \/>\nwiping the gum from your shoe.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHORSE GIRL<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI never understood<br \/>\nwhy she drew the chiseled lines of their loins<br \/>\nover and over on the paper covers of math books,<br \/>\nwhile mine were littered with puffy clouds<br \/>\nand poems penned for Chachi. What was it about<br \/>\nthe dream of grooming the immense ass of an animal<br \/>\nlarge enough to lay crap the size of opossums<br \/>\nthat made her endlessly starry-eyed in class,<br \/>\ndesigning Pegasus dot-to-dots<br \/>\non her Pee Chee?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI did not long to jockey around<br \/>\nwith my legs spread hard<br \/>\nover the great girth of leather<br \/>\nor rake hay in a stable<br \/>\nfull of sweaty equestrian breath.<br \/>\nWhat was it that compelled her<br \/>\nto attend horse camp each summer,<br \/>\nriding around on the back of a beast<br \/>\nwho bucked her off the year before,<br \/>\nhovering his ginormous equine balls over her<br \/>\nfor one long moment before piercing her femur<br \/>\nwith his great hoof<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nrendering her six months in a body cast<br \/>\nsigned by all of her horsey friends<br \/>\nwho drew little lassos and unicorns<br \/>\nand wrote \u201cyou\u2019ll be back<br \/>\nin the saddle by Spring Break\u201d<br \/>\nleaving her to scratch<br \/>\nfledgling pubic hairs beneath the plaster<br \/>\nwith the metal tip of a coat-hanger.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019d give her this; there is nothing<br \/>\nmore graceful than the shape of a white horse<br \/>\nin a silent meadow\u2014<br \/>\nUntil he begins to grunt and whinny,<br \/>\nedging against the ground<br \/>\nwith preternatural heat,<br \/>\nopening his enormous eye<br \/>\nin my direction. And I admit<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthat nothing is more appealing<br \/>\nthan the idea of cantering off into the sunset<br \/>\nwith something pressed against my fiddle<br \/>\nbesides a drunken boy from the saloon\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nso how can I really stand in judgment<br \/>\nagainst her high, horsey laugh,<br \/>\nknowing that she is not alone in bed tonight;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nsomewhere in a sprawling ranch house,<br \/>\ntack hung in the two-car garage,<br \/>\nthat filly is straddling the slim saddle<br \/>\nof her husband\u2019s torso with practice,<br \/>\nand with care, parting his mane<br \/>\nand currying the fine grain<br \/>\nof his skin until they each fall<br \/>\ninto a standing, fitful sleep.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHeather Altfeld\u2019s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in <i>Narrative Magazine, TLR, Okey-Panky, Cimarron Review, Pleiades, ZYZZYVA, Poetry Northwest, Superstition Review<\/i>, and others. &nbsp;Heather is the 2015 recipient&nbsp;of the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry from <i>The Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry<\/i>.&nbsp;Her first book, <i>The Disappearing Theatre<\/i> is forthcoming Summer 2015 with Poets at Work Press. &nbsp;She lives, writes, and teaches in Chico, California, and is finishing a second collection as well as a book for children.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Barrett\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Svea Barrett<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTO YOU, AMERICA<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBecause the museum is in the middle of the Pine Barrens.<br \/>\nBecause there is a sculpture called \u201cChicken Man\u201d which is<br \/>\na chicken with thick human legs and a penis, and \u201cDeer Woman\u201d<br \/>\nwhich is a deer head with breasts, but with antlers. Because<br \/>\nthe sculpture I\u2019m standing in front of now is a map of you made of<br \/>\nlatex gloves that hang like condoms, and I was disappointed<br \/>\nthat it wasn&#8217;t actually made of condoms. Because my late<br \/>\nmother-in-law picked up Popsicle sticks, made pencil cases<br \/>\nout of yogurt cups with old yarn because reduce, reuse, recycle.<br \/>\nBecause she&#8217;d have laughed I think, appreciated a map of you<br \/>\nmade of used condoms, though&nbsp;I doubt she&#8217;d have touched them<br \/>\nherself.&nbsp;Because this sculpture is beautiful and weird like you,<br \/>\nand what if it was condoms and beautiful, even close up? Use<br \/>\nthe ugly, make it new. Because at the school in NY City all the kids<br \/>\nwore hoodies for Trayvon, colors glowing over Facebook,<br \/>\nsoftening the ugliness of posted comments below. Because you&#8217;re<br \/>\nthe terrified people who wanted to cut down all the trees on the island<br \/>\nafter the hurricane because they might fall on your house, and the<br \/>\nguy on my street who built his deck around the double birch<br \/>\nin his yard. <em>Leaves in the barbecue? <\/em>he says,<em> fuck yeah, whatever.<\/em><br \/>\nBecause <em>leave my god damn guns alone, but wait, are you ok?<\/em><br \/>\n<em>Does your car need a jump, a tow? Here, I brought you dinner.<\/em><br \/>\nBecause you\u2019re the 24 hour drugstore when my son had a fever\u2014<br \/>\n103 &nbsp;at 3 AM, and the little old lady who saw my pajamas and<br \/>\nchildren\u2019s Advil and let me cut in line, but you\u2019re also the poor<br \/>\npeople who shop at Walmart, ignoring the poor people who work<br \/>\nat Walmart. Because Hurricane Sandy. 9-11. Tornado Alley.<br \/>\nRainbow flags replacing confederate flags. Because the Debt ceiling.<br \/>\nTaxes. Because fresh peaches. Because fresh sweet corn in a basket<br \/>\non a table beside the road in upstate NY, next to a box with cash<br \/>\nsitting next to a handwritten sign:<br \/>\n<em>Please Pay What You Can. &nbsp;Thanks.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSvea Barrett is a 29 year veteran NJ public school teacher and mom of three boys. Her chapbook, <em>Why I Collect Moose<\/em>, won the 2005 Poets Corner Press Poetry Chapbook Competition, and her book <em>I Tell Random People About You<\/em> won the Spire Press 2010 Poetry Book Award. Her work has appeared in <em>Samsara Quarterly<\/em>, the <em>Paterson Literary Review<\/em>, <em>The Journal of NJ Poets<\/em>, <em>LIPS<\/em>, <em>Caduceus, US 1 Worksheets, Ariel XXVII,<\/em> and other journals, and she tied for first place in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards in 2013.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Buonaiuto\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Giuseppi Martino Buonaiuto<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u201cYES I WILL FUCK YOU, JUST ASK.\u201d<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen a woman says she likes<br \/>\nthe&nbsp;<em>man<\/em>&nbsp;to take the initiative,<br \/>\nWhat she is really saying is:<br \/>\n<em>\u201cYes, I will fuck you, just ask.\u201d<\/em><br \/>\nAs I write these words,<br \/>\nI rent The Eugene O\u2019Neill Theater,<br \/>\nlocated between Broadway &amp; 8th Ave,<br \/>\non West 49th Street,<br \/>\nno shabby venue, I might add.<br \/>\nThen I stage &amp; cast the play,<br \/>\nchoosing for the role of me,<br \/>\nmyself:&nbsp;&nbsp;Queequeg.<br \/>\nIshmael\u2019s Crypto-Gay,<br \/>\nNew Bedford, Mass bedmate,<br \/>\na large, well-toned,<br \/>\nmuscled man of much ink &amp; few words,<br \/>\njust short pigeon-English phrases,<br \/>\nutterances such as:&nbsp;\u201c<em>I likee.\u201d<\/em><br \/>\nThat\u2019s right, playing me is<br \/>\nMelville\u2019s freaky, tattooed,<br \/>\nPolynesian harpooner,<br \/>\nright out of&nbsp;<em>Moby Dick<\/em>.<br \/>\nAnd should the sexual imagery &amp;<br \/>\nmetaphor of me\u2014<em>yours truly<\/em>\u2014<br \/>\npacking a harpoon in my trousers,<br \/>\nprove a trifle too scrumptiously<br \/>\npotent for you, consider please the<br \/>\nerotic potential of a three-way with<br \/>\n<em>Chingachgook.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nGiuseppi Martino Buonaiuto is a former commissioned officer and veteran; employed later by one of the more obscure government clandestine services. He holds numerous graduate degrees including a Masters from the Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University. He is retired, splitting his time between two gated over-55 lunatic asylums, one in northern New Mexico and the other in southern California. He was born and raised in Brooklyn. His two children know him by another name.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Callas\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Chelsea Callas<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA PARTY DO<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI bought some sensual body armor from Forever 21<br \/>\nIt was only $19.80 which was a good deal since it showed off my shoulder blades<br \/>\nI read that shoulder blades were a party \u2018do\u2019<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI don&#8217;t know how I became so afraid of everyone<br \/>\nThere would be a few funny people at the party<br \/>\nEveryone would be nice<br \/>\nA couple would be kind<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI drank just enough before to put me in&nbsp;a state of eerie exuberance<br \/>\nwhere I would be in control<br \/>\nand might say something so quietly witty that guests would remember it when<br \/>\nthey were doing something meaningless- like watering flowers<br \/>\nThey would laugh to themselves and mouth, \u201cI couldn\u2019t understand then, I don\u2019t<br \/>\nunderstand now\u201d<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI smeared beets across my parched lips-such comments deserve a vessel that is<br \/>\nstrikingly colorful, but natural and accessible<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI put my best star spangled stilettos on and wondered if I would be the one to<br \/>\nmake the toast<br \/>\n&#8220;To love and lust and losing your head&#8221; I&#8217;d say<br \/>\nAll the starry eyed battalions would laugh<br \/>\nI&#8217;d wonder how I was ever afraid of a few of the helplessly underdressed<br \/>\nwho loved seeing the glaze of Mayfair almost as much as me<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThey\u2019re still waiting on that toast<br \/>\nThere are things I probably shouldn\u2019t laugh at<br \/>\nBut I don\u2019t know what they are<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nChelsea Callas is 24 years old and from Portland, Oregon. She has a BA in English from the University of Oregon. Although she&#8217;s been writing for years, she only recently began submitting her work for publication.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Carlisle\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Wendy Taylor Carlisle<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFERROUS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe ferrous taste in my mouth heightens your attraction<br \/>\nas do the soft blue welts that bloom and unfurl<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nlike phlox on my upper arms. You are only superficial<br \/>\non the surface.  Once I know this I am crazy<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor you. I bite the inside of my cheek.&nbsp; It bleeds like the skin<br \/>\nof any lie you tell me, slick with that jam.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen I eradicate sheen, give up toys like touch<br \/>\nand the sins: jealousy &amp; rust, I long for carnage<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand an armpit with some sweat in it.<br \/>\nI will pay and be paid for.  After you, I will slip<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfrom the hearth burned, brightened, hardened.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWendy Taylor Carlisle lives in the Arkansas Ozarks. She is a ten time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and the author of two books, <i>Reading Berryman to the Dog<\/i> and <i>Discount Fireworks<\/i> (both Jacaranda Books). Her most recent chapbook is <i>Persephone on the Metro<\/i>, (MadHat Press, 2014.) For more information, check her website at <a href=\"http:\/\/www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com\/\">www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com<\/a>.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Deer Cloud\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Susan Deer Cloud<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAFTER READING SAM HAMILL&#8217;S <em>CROSSING THE YELLOW RIVER<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nin bathtub, she floats to sleep thinking about<br \/>\nTu Fu, Li Po, and other ancient Chinese poets,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ndreams she dwells on mountainside<br \/>\nwith those two poet pals who give her rice<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthey bummed from the mountain monastery,<br \/>\neven sharing their wine with the young<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ngreen-eyed woman in her dream. She can\u2019t<br \/>\ndecide which bad boy she loves more,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\npossibly Li Po because of that way he gazes<br \/>\nso ridiculously at full moon glittering on lake.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBehind door she hears male voice cry<br \/>\n\u201cHellooo!\u201d Crossing back over the river<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbetween sleep and waking, she shines<br \/>\n\u201cI\u2019m here, Li Po. Come in!\u201d But no one<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ncomes. She gazes at old woman\u2019s body<br \/>\nin tub-lake size of a coffin.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWEBBED TOES<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBrother remembering Grandfather\u2019s<br \/>\nwebs so high up toes his feet<br \/>\nlooked like frog\u2019s feet, how Grandpa<br \/>\nwould show him the webs then laugh.<br \/>\nWebs strong-delicate. Webs evoking<br \/>\nOrkney Isles selkies, sea creatures<br \/>\nwho hide skins on beach<br \/>\nthen mate with humans.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Scotch-Irish sailed here,<br \/>\nmixed their Orkney DNA<br \/>\nwith Turtle Island Native blood.<br \/>\nWhen my brother and I lift our feet<br \/>\nlight glows through seal skin,<br \/>\nreminding me of sunrays<br \/>\nshimmering through<br \/>\npale blue rice in China bowls,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nof all the lights I have met with<br \/>\nlovely as any shine that has flown<br \/>\ninto my eyes.&nbsp; Webs threading back<br \/>\nto Mongolia, to Orkney Isles,<br \/>\nto seas of mystery. And there comes<br \/>\nsome powerful gentleness I bring<br \/>\nto land whenever I press foot soles<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nto Mother Earth, leaving<br \/>\nslow trail of ancient light<br \/>\nthat makes my clan be as children<br \/>\nforever slipping off shoes, boots,<br \/>\nsandals, moccasins, raising up<br \/>\nfreedom feet to delight in their webs<br \/>\nand the metaphor of toes, old<br \/>\nknowing of wild north seas,<br \/>\nthe kisses of selkies.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSusan Deer Cloud is a mixed lineage mountain Indian from the Catskill Mountains. An alumna of Binghamton University (B.A. &amp; M.A.) and Goddard College (MFA), she is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, two New York State Foundation for the Arts Poetry Fellowships, an Elizabeth George Foundation Grant and a Chenango County Council for the Arts Individual Artist Grant. Published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, her most recent books are <em>Hunger Moon, Fox Mountain, Braiding Starlight<\/em>, <em>Car Stealer<\/em> and <em>The Last Ceremony<\/em>. Deer Cloud is the editor of ongoing Native anthology <em>I Was Indian (Before Being Indian Was Cool)<\/em> and the Re-Matriation Chapbook Series of Indigenous Poetry (FootHills Publishing). She is a rover who enjoys the company of cats because they don\u2019t give a rat\u2019s ass. <a href=\"http:\/\/sites.google.com\/site\/susandeercloud\/\">http:\/\/sites.google.com\/site\/susandeercloud\/<\/a>.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Dombrowski\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Rosemarie Dombrowski<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<em>SAVE THE CAT<\/em>: POETRY EDITION<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n1.<br \/>\nThe accusation was flawless\u2014<br \/>\n<em>you stink of pure jealousy.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt sounded so right that I wrote it down.<br \/>\nIt was nearly perfect, so I saved it for months.<br \/>\nMonths later, I found it tucked under<br \/>\na cd case and an empty red envelope.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA saved line does nothing for a writer.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n2.<br \/>\nI propped the 45 against the collected works of e.e. cummings,<br \/>\nacross from the family photos and the rotary phone.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy mother claimed it was disturbing.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe boy on the cover had squinty eyes, a heavy brow,<br \/>\ntwo sickly, pubescent shoulders.<br \/>\nHe had the face of a weasel-ly kid,<br \/>\nand you could almost hear him<br \/>\nscreeching out the words<br \/>\n<em>you broke my fucking heart.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThat kind of sentiment does something for a writer.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n3.<br \/>\nWhen we talk about the water-table at Hoover,<br \/>\nwe vilify the golfers and the Canadian pipeline,<br \/>\nthe alchemists who want to remove salt from the ocean.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI doodle the symbol for recycling on a notepad<br \/>\nand slide it dramatically across the table.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI watch the clock as you strum your mandolin.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYour counter-offer is a chorus, sung madly<br \/>\nand with passionate protest\u2014<br \/>\n<em>every molecule of water is a filthy whore,<\/em><br \/>\n<em>so deal with it. <\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe truth is everything for a writer.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRosemarie Dombrowski (RD) is the co-founder of the Phoenix Poetry Series and a poetry editor for the literary magazine <em>Four Chambers<\/em>. Her first collection, <em>The Book of Emergencies<\/em>, was published by Five Oaks Press in 2014. In the past year, her work has also appeared in <em>Hartskill Review<\/em>, <em>A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,<\/em> <em>The Huffington Post, <\/em>and<em> The Review Review<\/em>. She can typically be found performing and\/or teaching classes on the anti-story, Lady Gaga, and rebellious poetics.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Dym\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Victoria Dym<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWISH I COULD GROW A MUSTACHE LIKE SALVADOR DALI&#8217;S<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nO Dali\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYour facial hair I covet<br \/>\nand just as yours<br \/>\nI wish I could grow it so\u2014<br \/>\nI could wax it, twirl it<br \/>\nand swirl it into iconic<br \/>\nproportion<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThere is a competition of sorts<br \/>\nbetween some men to grow it<br \/>\nthick and long and bushy\u2014a silent<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2018My mustache is better than yours\u2019<br \/>\na stare-down contest of hair<br \/>\nEmilio used to always say:<br \/>\n<em>Mine is better than his, right? \u2013right? <\/em><br \/>\nAnd I would say:<br \/>\n<em>Oh yes, of course, Emilio<\/em><br \/>\nBecause, that is how you love a narcissist<br \/>\nthough truth be told\u2014yours, Dali, was always<br \/>\nthe grand prize winner\u2014my envy every time<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe one I wish I could grow\u2014&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; And now, so many<br \/>\nyears later, no men in my life, I fashion a black pipe cleaner\u2014<br \/>\ntwirl it, swirl it\u2014make two bends so it fits into nostrils<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand pretend<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nVictoria Dym is a graduate of Ringling Brother\u2019s Barnum and Bailey Clown College, the University of Pittsburgh, BA, and Carlow University, MFA. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the City Paper, Adanna Literary Journal and Pearl Magazine. Find Victoria\u2019s poems online at the Writer&#8217;s at Work site, and, Eunoia Review. &nbsp;&nbsp;Her chapbook, Class Clown, was chosen as one of ten finalists in the Coal Hill Review Chapbook Contest, by Autumn Hill Press, and published ultimately by Finishing Line Press in 2015.&nbsp; Victoria won first prize and publication in 10, Carlow University\u2019s MFA Anniversary Anthology for her poem,<em> When the Walls Cave In.<\/em> Ms. Dym resides in Tampa, Florida with her cat Mook.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Elizenberry\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Arika Elizenberry<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJUNE 22<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThere&#8217;s your name etched from<br \/>\nhot iron in stone on the ground.<br \/>\nThe sun casts its gaze on your<br \/>\n77 years of life. You were never<br \/>\none to dwell on death, but celebrate<br \/>\nlife&#8217;s blessings, which is why I<br \/>\nbrought the following: a hazelnut<br \/>\nlatte, a plate of churros, and<br \/>\nmy Nobel Prize book <em>Baby Leo<\/em>.<br \/>\nForget the primped hair and<br \/>\npressed black suit, my blue<br \/>\nMohawk, Metallica shirt, and<br \/>\ntorn jeans were fine by you.<br \/>\nSo to honor your birthday, I sit<br \/>\nbeside you, read my book with<br \/>\nyour glasses, and I hear you<br \/>\nwhisper to me, <em>That\u2019s my girl<\/em>.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nArika Elizenberry received her associate of arts in creative writing from the College of Southern Nevada, where she was Vice President of the college\u2019s creative writing club for three years. She is currently the assistant editor at Helen: A Literary Magazine. Her work has appeared in the Silver Compass, Neon Dreams, East Coast Literary Review, 300 Days of Sun, Toasted Cheese, Burningword Literary Journal, Open Road Review, Sippy Cup Magazine, ZO Magazine, and Blue Lyra Review with forthcoming publications in Aspirations, Deltona Howl, Meat For Tea, Rockhurst Review, and Crab Fat Lit.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Ferguson\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Jim Ferguson<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJOHN WAYNE CAN&#8217;T JUMP THAT HEDGE BECAUSE HE&#8217;S DEAD<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbleach<br \/>\nbleach just kills stuff<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhumans<br \/>\nshouldn\u2019t drink it<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nor use it<br \/>\ntoo much<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nover a million<br \/>\nmini-white-moths<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ncan live inside<br \/>\nyour vacuum cleaner<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbacteria<br \/>\nmostly too small to see<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\neven if you\u2019ve had a recent eye-test<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbut<br \/>\nthey like to live in your gut<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand in yogurt<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ntwo kinds of people<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthose with passports<br \/>\nand those without<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe counting of syllables<br \/>\nexact same thing as<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe measuring of skulls<br \/>\nare there really poetry fascists<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe apostrophe hang-up<br \/>\na new mental illness<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nsome chairs<br \/>\nare too expensive<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nto burn<br \/>\nwhen you\u2019re cold<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nadvanced artificial intelligence<br \/>\nthat just kills stuff<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ndumb artificial intelligence<br \/>\na great humanitarian tool<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ndrone drone drone<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfootballers wages<br \/>\nand transfers fees<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nloose change<br \/>\nfor any pensioner<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ntwo kinds of people<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe rich<br \/>\nand the rest<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwhy do thousands<br \/>\nobey a few who have guns<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwhy do the few with guns<br \/>\nmostly work for the rich<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwhy are some ponies<br \/>\nimmune to the midgie<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nno one invented DNA<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwas it always there<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nblind empiricism<br \/>\ncan make your nose bleed<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbleach and bacteria<br \/>\nthe natural inhabitants<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nof the toilet bowl<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nopen sewers<br \/>\nhave a natural tendency to riot<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ntoilet humour<br \/>\nbest appreciated by the lower orders<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe suppression of the urge to happiness<br \/>\nis good for your health<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ngod has told us this<br \/>\nvia many prophets and faiths<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ngod knows<br \/>\nwhat he\u2019s doing<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe inventor of spaghetti has stated<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe truly uncivilised<br \/>\neat their main course<br \/>\nwith a fork and spoon<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHarry doesn\u2019t like dogs<br \/>\nalthough he is one<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe Nietzschean aphorism<br \/>\nis by no means a vehicle<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor driving<br \/>\nphilosophical inquiry<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ncomparing tomatoes with bananas<br \/>\nis by no means a vehicle<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor driving<br \/>\nan analogy home<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhow does an olive know<br \/>\nwhere Israel is<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwhen it can\u2019t even jump<br \/>\nover the wall<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe inventor of the spoon has stated<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthis is not a tool<br \/>\nto be used in the fight against fascism<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n*<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJohn Wayne can\u2019t jump that hedge because he\u2019s dead.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJim Ferguson is a poet and prose writer based in Glasgow, Scotland. Recent publications include the novel &#8216;Punk Fiddle&#8217;, poetry collection &#8216;Songs to Drown a Million Souls&#8217; and musings on the Scottish independence referendum campaign &#8216;The Pine-Box-Jig Involves no Dancing&#8217;. A recent review of his poetry cd \u2018More than Quirky\u2019 states: &#8216;Ferguson&#8217;s strong Glaswegian accent is striking&nbsp;and his voice is forcefully expressive, most particularly when reading words and&nbsp;phrases from the Glaswegian dialect\u2026&nbsp;In all poems there is a conviction in the reading, at times both&nbsp;poignant and haunting.&#8217; He works as a Creative Writing Tutor at Glasgow Kelvin College (Easterhouse Campus), is available for readings, and can be contacted via his website <a href=\"http:\/\/www.jimfergusonpoet.co.uk\/\">www.jimfergusonpoet.co.uk.<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Fowler\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>James Fowler<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAFTER HEARING OF FRANK&#8217;S SUICIDE<br \/>\nI TAKE A WALK IN THE FOREST<br \/>\n(for Frank Potvin, after<br \/>\nthe last line from his last poem)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA fox leaps over a windfall,<br \/>\nhops forward, places his front paws<br \/>\non the shoulders of his mate.<br \/>\nShe rubs her head across his chest.<br \/>\nThey prance circles in the snow.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWas the thought of Thanksgiving<br \/>\ntoo much? In all your new places<br \/>\nsince I saw you, did you lose sight<br \/>\nof the dancing foxes in<br \/>\n<em>such thickness of shadows<\/em>?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA crow half-hops, half-strides<br \/>\nahead of me, takes flight,<br \/>\nthreads his way between the trees,<br \/>\nclimbs above the canopy,<br \/>\nreaches the sky.<br \/>\nIs gone.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJames Fowler lives in Charlestown, NH, and has over two-hundred fifty poems published in various journals and anthologies. He edited the poetry anthology <em>Heartbeat of New England<\/em> (Tiger Moon Publication, 2000). Finishing Line Press published a chapbook of his Japanese forms, <em>Connections to This World<\/em>, in March, 2012. A book of his Japanese forms, <em>Falling Ashes<\/em>, was volume VII in Hobblebush Press\u2019s Granite State Poets series. For more of Jim\u2019s work, go <a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1070#Fowler\">here<\/a>.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Fulwood\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Neil Fulwood<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAPOCRYPHA<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe hand that manipulates the media<br \/>\nrules the world. Lucifer, falling,<br \/>\nknew God had the witnesses,<br \/>\nthe writers and probably the plans<br \/>\nfor a printing press buried among<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthose eighth-day doodlings<br \/>\nfrom when the act of creation<br \/>\nseemed like anti-climax;<br \/>\nwhen the grand design<br \/>\nrevealed itself and control was key.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLucifer wrote his side of the story<br \/>\nin the dry earth with his fingers.<br \/>\nGod sent rain; made things grow.<br \/>\nGod raised forests; acres of roots<br \/>\ntwisted the ground illegible.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLucifer wrote on mountainsides,<br \/>\nblasting words into the rock.<br \/>\nGod invented erosion; shaved<br \/>\nlayers off the landscapes<br \/>\nof His own making. Lucifer<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfound a means of reflecting<br \/>\nhis testimony on the still surface<br \/>\nof the earth&#8217;s waters. God<br \/>\ndestroyed it with a tsunami;<br \/>\ndead words littered the beaches.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLucifer tore himself apart<br \/>\nand the light men would forget<br \/>\nhe was named for<br \/>\nstreamed into the night,<br \/>\nan aurora borealis. God<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbegan work on a hole in the sky.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNeil Fulwood was born in 1972, son of a truck driver, grandson of a miner. Where the whole poetry thing comes from is anyone&#8217;s guess. His work has been in The Morning Star, Nib, Art Decades, Full of Crow Poetry and Butcher&#8217;s Dog. He&#8217;s married, holds down a day job and subsidizes several bars.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Gause\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Michael Gause<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nGUARDIAN ANGEL<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI used to think it was your crazy Aunt Pam<br \/>\nwho watched us when we were 7.<br \/>\nDancing with birds on that three-season porch,<br \/>\nI figured if anything was going to keep us alive<br \/>\nshe was it.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAs we got older you decided it had to be some big city clich\u00e9<br \/>\nsomewhere on the lower east side.<br \/>\nYou imagined a post-orgasmic angel snoring away<br \/>\nlike something out of Dostoyevsky<br \/>\nreaching for the darkest light.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAfter college I remember telling you I was sure<br \/>\nit was just our anti-selves pushing us<br \/>\none step toward the dream<br \/>\ntaking two back toward start.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen the news came you died<br \/>\nI asked the question all over again.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOf course what we never discussed was the obvious question:<br \/>\nwhich of us deserve to be saved<br \/>\nand who\u2019s just plain got it coming.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMichael K. Gause cut his baby teeth on southern solitude and the written word before moving to Minnesota. He&nbsp;has taught German, sold men&#8217;s clothes, and stocked diapers at midnight. He is author of two chapbooks and other things. You can hear him mumble to himself at <a href=\"http:\/\/thedayonfire.blogspot.com\/\">thedayonfire.blogspot.com<\/a>.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Goodman\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Patricia L. Goodman<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPOISON<br \/>\nafter Jan Beatty<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI carry a secret pouch of cyanide pellets\/I poison the teen who lured my nine-year-old innocence into the foyer of the local candy store on Sunday\/shoved my hand down his pants\/made me squeeze his erection\/I poison the sophomore geek who made snide remarks about my poetry because I was an old white woman\/I poison the long-haired guitar player who strung me along until I refused to sleep with him\/dumped me on my rear\/even in a sheltered life of innocence\/enough offenders\/so I poison the sixteen-year-old who pulled me into the woods at fifteen\/smeared my mouth with saliva before I knew what had happened\/I\/ too embarrassed to tell my father when he asked if he was being <em>fresh\/<\/em>upset I would never be able to claim <em>sweet sixteen and never been kissed\/<\/em>I poison the man in the train station in Toronto who screamed<em> I want that little girl<\/em>\/while my mother clutched me in panic\/until the police came\/hauled him away\/I\u2019m on a roll now\/I poison the grunge in Spanish class who ridiculed me because I answered all the teacher\u2019s questions\/one of my husband\u2019s best friends who wanted to meet in a motel\/a colleague whose boozed eyes ogled my cleavage when I was pregnant\/I poison the father of a patient who announced too loudly that he wanted to <em>get in my pants<\/em>\/I poison all the men who wanted me for my face\/my body\/without noticing I had a brain\/I poison all the boys in high school for being afraid to date me because I was too smart\/too pretty\/too distant\/I see the reasons now\/my terror of body\/of feelings\/of sex\/so I poison the Victorian morals that made me think all physical intimacy <em>bad<\/em> until after marriage\/when it was too late\/cripples me even today\/because poison within rebounds\/like cyanide on my own tongue.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPatricia L. Goodman is a widowed mother and grandmother, a graduate of Wells College with a degree in Biology and is a member of Phi Beta Kappa. Her career involved breeding and training horses with her orthodontist husband on their farm in Chadds Ford, PA. She has had poems published in the likes of <em>Aries, The Broadkill Review, Sugar Mule, Requiem Magazine, Jellyfish Whispers, Fox Chase Review, Mistletoe Madness, Storm Cycle, Poised in Flight <\/em> (all from Kind of a Hurricane Press), <em>On Our Own<\/em> (Silver Boomer Books), and <em>The Widow\u2019s Handbook.<\/em> Her first book, <em>Closer to the Ground<\/em> was a finalist in the 2014 Dogfish Head Poetry Competition and she has twice won the Delaware Press Association Communications Award in poetry. She lives on the banks of the Red Clay Creek in Delaware, where she is surrounded by the natural world she loves. For more of Patricia\u2019s work, go <a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1070#Goodman3\">here<\/a>.<a id=\"Grabois\"><\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Mitchell Grabois<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRAZ<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI am Rasputin<br \/>\nwith the spirit shining out of my ears<br \/>\nthe Crimea under my belt<br \/>\nthe Cossacks at my command<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPussy Riot has been vanquished<br \/>\nAnna Politkovskaya has been murdered<br \/>\nBig mouth woman didn\u2019t know<br \/>\nthat the bullet is mightier than the pen?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe is only one of two hundred<br \/>\nNow she knows<br \/>\nThey all know<br \/>\nThey commiserate with each other<br \/>\nin Purgatory<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI am Rasputin<br \/>\nwith the spirit shining out of my ears<br \/>\nThe Cossacks mount their horses<br \/>\nas in days of glorious gore<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThey spur their horses<br \/>\nand in the bright sunlight of Mother Russia<br \/>\ntheir flesh becomes transparent<br \/>\nand their skeletons will out<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nmen and horses<br \/>\nan inspiring sight<br \/>\nI am Rasputin<br \/>\ntall, bearded, in a black robe<br \/>\nwith the spirit shining out of my ears<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over seven hundred of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for work published in 2012, 2013, and 2014. His novel,&nbsp;<em>Two-Headed Dog<\/em>, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for <a href=\"http:\/\/www.amazon.com\/Two-Headed-Dog-ebook\/dp\/B009SB8VP8\/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1379515381&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=two+headed+dog\">Kindle<\/a>&nbsp;and&nbsp;<a href=\"http:\/\/www.barnesandnoble.com\/w\/two-headed-dog-mitch-grabois\/1112474771?ean=2940014867696\">Nook<\/a>, or as a&nbsp;<a href=\"http:\/\/www.amazon.com\/Two-Headed-Dog-Mitch-Grabois\/dp\/1482392674\/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1379515597&amp;sr=8-1&amp;keywords=two+headed+dog\">print edition<\/a>. He lives in Denver.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Graham\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Brit Graham<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSIREN SONG<br \/>\n<em>After Kim Addonizio\u2019s \u201cMermaid Song\u201d<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMan-made gills,<br \/>\nrazored into<br \/>\nexistence by spade-shaped<br \/>\nfingers, callous<br \/>\nand jagged. Nails part<br \/>\nskin, like the sea.<br \/>\nPerhaps now she can breathe<br \/>\nwhile he holds her under.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFor now Brit Graham traverses the tundra that is South Dakota, tripping over things while stargazing in the all too brief summer months. She is the crux of an ongoing love affair between the Pacific and Atlantic. She managed to pry an M.F.A. in Poetry from the grasp of Converse College. You can read her poetry things in publications like Devilfish Review, The Night Owl, RealSouth Magazine, and The OWL.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Haugh\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>John Haugh<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCRIBBING OFF MODEST MUSSORGSKY&#8217;S NOTES FOR &#8220;PICTURES AT AN EXHIBITION&#8221;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<u>Part I&nbsp;&nbsp; Mute Anger<\/u><br \/>\nYou see an oil painting, of a Hereford steer in a typical field,<br \/>\nstaring at you. More than a little angry, with no access to<br \/>\nshade or water, he dares you to see him on that vibrant field<br \/>\nof chlorophyll. His right eye full of recognition, limited<br \/>\nbut real. The entire painting draws focus to one angry eye.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNow, imagine yourself, not so much older than now, feeling<br \/>\na need to scream truth at the world but mute, like that steer.<br \/>\nLet\u2019s say a left-handed stroke, six minutes without<br \/>\nbrain oxygen so you no longer speak. Imagine sitting<br \/>\nin a glider rocker as another stroke hunts you, unable<br \/>\nto reach your medicine or get your son\u2019s attention as<br \/>\nhe rambles on about a hot barista. Now, can you see<br \/>\nthat steer true, feel his mute anger as the butcher herds him<br \/>\ninto the chute one last time?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<u>Part II&nbsp; Diesel Long Days<\/u><br \/>\nAt sixteen in Oregon, a booky smart-ass; my parents<br \/>\nsent me to work on a Hereford ranch. Dad told foreman Joe,<br \/>\n\u201cwork the shit out of him.\u201d So, I lived without television or<br \/>\ncar or friends or bus or civilization. Over diesel-long days,<br \/>\nI lived alfalfa hay, tractors, Herefords, and Joe, who<br \/>\ncould call individual cattle, have them come to him.<br \/>\nAll God\u2019s creatures, right?&nbsp;&nbsp; I cherish memories of helping<br \/>\nforeman Joe and a cow with a difficult birth until three A.M.,<br \/>\nbottle feeding a calf with a slipping grasp on life.<br \/>\nJoe grew up in cotton fields, no school after fifth grade,<br \/>\none of my great teachers: revere all life,<br \/>\nespecially if you love your steak.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<u>Part III \u201cEverybody Dies Frustrated and Sad and That is Beautiful\u201d<sup>1<\/sup><\/u><br \/>\nYou send an accomplished painter a few words, receive back<br \/>\na flood of parallel details, resonating, harmonizing, riffing<br \/>\non 1964 Montana and a Crow named Victor Morningstar<br \/>\nworking tirelessly to keep his family in flour and lard.<br \/>\nAffirmed or endorsed or just understood, after your time of writing<br \/>\nlike baseball lived below the Mendoza line until one sharp CRACK<br \/>\nof contact and a cowhide ball flies off in a perfect arc.<\/p>\n<ol>\n<li>They Might Be Giants, \u201cDon\u2019t Let&#8217;s Start\u201d <u>They Might Be Giants<\/u>, 11\/2\/86<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\nJohn Haugh\u2019s writing has been published in <em>Notre Dame Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, <\/em>and elsewhere. &nbsp;He won the Nancy J. Heggem Poetry Award, and is making progress on a chapbook with help from the Winston-Salem Writers and Writers Group of the Triad. &nbsp;&nbsp;Mr. Haugh serves on the Board of the WGOT and also held a Board position with the Barrington Writers\u2019 Workshop. &nbsp;Mr. Haugh moved to Greensboro from Chicago after accepting a risk underwriting position with Volvo. &nbsp;He was a NCAA national champion in fencing and spent untold hours browsing Powell\u2019s City of Books in Oregon.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Heavisides\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Martin Heavisides<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nN.F.A.T.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nlet\u2019s say the worst happens<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nyou survive, which is normally a good thing<br \/>\nbut permanently disfigured, universally ostracized<br \/>\nit&#8217;s no picnic\/bowl of cherries\/barrel of laughs<br \/>\nmedical and social science can do nothing<br \/>\nit&#8217;s not so much that people actively scorn and despise you<br \/>\nthough there is that, it&#8217;s more that they&#8217;re able<br \/>\nto actively scorn and despise you<br \/>\nsimultaneous with ignoring your very existence<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbut a band of loyal friends gathers close round you in spite of it all? nah<br \/>\nthe great light and love of your life sticks with you through thick and thin?<br \/>\nnot even through thick<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nlet&#8217;s say you&#8217;re right on the brink of ending an existence<br \/>\nnobody, not even you, values \u2014 feel in your pocket for a gun<br \/>\nwhy would you have a gun? who&#8217;d even sell it to you?<br \/>\ncyanide or arsenic maybe, if they could watch you take it<br \/>\ninstead you find a strip of paper, a lottery ticket<br \/>\nthe clerk who sold it to you was very suspicious<br \/>\n&#8220;you trying to pull a fast one? know something<br \/>\nthe rest of us don&#8217;t? what assurance do i have<br \/>\nthis is functional money? telling me nobody would bother to counterfeit one dollar bills<br \/>\nis suspicious in itself&#8221; but he sold you the ticket<br \/>\nthe numbers on the first line look awfully familiar<br \/>\ncut to the chase, you have the winning ticket<br \/>\novernight there are breakthroughs, advances<br \/>\nin medical and social science<br \/>\nthe one tiny scar surgery cannot correct<br \/>\ncould be from dueling in the old days<br \/>\nor some more contemporary romantic affliction<br \/>\nsex can be bought for money of course<br \/>\nbut why bother? it can be had free, gratis<br \/>\nonce you learn how to play on expectation<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nyou spend like people much richer than you<br \/>\nwhich is to say, far less than you appear to be<br \/>\ntwo wildcat investments pay off handsomely<br \/>\na third tanks so you grow more cautious with your money<br \/>\nno need to do a blessed thing in life<br \/>\nyou don&#8217;t want to, ever again<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ntrust no-one of course, where were they when you needed them?<br \/>\nlove no-one, like quite a few well enough, expecting nothing<br \/>\nknowing what you know, sometimes late at night<br \/>\nstudy in the silvered glass your new knife-sculpted face, probe with the fingers<br \/>\nlet&#8217;s just say<br \/>\nnostalgia for angry tissue<br \/>\nthe veins beneath the skin ache and remember<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMartin Heavisides&nbsp;has published his first novel,&nbsp;<em>Undermind <\/em>at<em> Crossing Chaos Press<\/em>, a full-length play, a study of the English playwright Peter Barnes, a very rude essay on ideas about God and a study of Louis Armstrong in&nbsp;<em>Linnet&#8217;s Wings<\/em>; Film Rights and Practica in <em>Sein Und Werden<\/em>; a poem in&nbsp;<em>Cella&#8217;s Round Trip<\/em>; a poem cycle in&nbsp;<em>FRiGG<\/em>; Cubist Torso and a cartoon in&nbsp;<em>Mad Hatter&#8217;s Review<\/em>; a flash in&nbsp;<em>Gambara<\/em>, to name only a few. He expects to be featured in an animated film soon impropria persona. Rumors of a yellow teddy bear as muse are rigorously denied.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Heffers\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>TJ Heffers<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWHEN I DIE FIRST<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou curl into me like a tumor<br \/>\nthat I might invite inside<br \/>\nnestled close to the heart<br \/>\nthat will give out on me too soon<br \/>\nand I hope you turn metastatic<br \/>\ncreeping through my veins to grow<br \/>\ninside my organs like branches<br \/>\nso my blood flows sideways<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt\u2019ll be too soon no matter<br \/>\nhow long we\u2019ve spent fumbling<br \/>\nin the dark for the ace wrap<br \/>\nto keep our broken bits together<br \/>\nthose moments waking<br \/>\nto find you bright-eyed beside<br \/>\nme in the bed and like an infant<br \/>\nI reach for you with swollen digits<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nToo soon you will be alone<br \/>\nand when someday comes<br \/>\nwhen my too young body<br \/>\nsoftens and tears like paper<br \/>\nin the rain when I reach<br \/>\nfor you when vomit<br \/>\ndribbles through my goatee<br \/>\nwhen my shoulders can\u2019t prop<br \/>\nme up in bed when you stroke<br \/>\nmy thinning face and straw<br \/>\nhair I want you to know you<br \/>\ngrew in me that I relish your<br \/>\ncancer\u2019s grip in my chest<br \/>\nthat your fever burns<br \/>\nme but never too hot to bear and<br \/>\nI want you to remember only<br \/>\nmy voice<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTJ Heffers is a Pennsylvania-born, Arkansas-based writer with two cats and too much debt. His work has previously appeared in the Red Rock Review, the Blue Lake Review, FuckFiction, and others.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Hofer\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Marianna Hofer<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNOT EVERY DINER SERVES BUCKWHEAT PANCAKES, SO I KEEP COMING HERE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe diner\u2019s parking lot full with<br \/>\ndinged up pickups, rusted cars,<br \/>\nyour red Mercedes with the black<br \/>\nfront fender, lost hubcaps, fits<br \/>\nright in. And like that sharp slam<br \/>\nof the diner\u2019s ragged screen door<br \/>\nbehind us, we\u2019re clearly through,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHow did the settlers, the \u00e9migr\u00e9s,<br \/>\nmake it, not end up on some trail<br \/>\nthat just vanished into a thicket?<br \/>\nThe first mile or so seems easy,<br \/>\nbut those first five hundred miles,<br \/>\nor those next thousand miles?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHow did they convince themselves<br \/>\nthat seemed like a grand adventure?<br \/>\nAnd for what? Every proposed end<br \/>\nstill meant at best maybe, still<br \/>\nthe chance to miss a critical turn.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy own paternal grandfather made<br \/>\nthat choice to give it a try during<br \/>\na last gold rush, went west, came<br \/>\nback east with just a pearl handled<br \/>\npistol to show for it.<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;&#8230;.<\/span>Which, as any good<br \/>\ndramatic tale ends, goes off, someone<br \/>\ndies. Only it was him, a badly botched,<br \/>\nbut a week later, successful, suicide.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSo I have my reasons, clearly, to<br \/>\nmaybe, for once this time, just finish<br \/>\nthe buckwheat pancakes, not push<br \/>\nthrough this screen door of indiscretion<br \/>\nso quickly, chase out it once more.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBut I will. At some point, miles<br \/>\nfrom where they started, the \u00e9migr\u00e9s<br \/>\nknew it was better to just push on,<br \/>\nnever have to answer the question<br \/>\n\u2018so you gave up that easy?\u2019<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMarianna Hofer has Studio 13 in the gloriously haunted Jones Building in Findlay, OH. Her poems and stories appear in small magazines, and her b&amp;w photography hangs in local exhibitions and eateries. Her first book, A Memento Sent by the World, was published by Word Press in 2008.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Hoffmeister\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Erica Hoffmeister<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBUT, WE ALL LOST OUR VIRGINITY IN THE ORANGE GROVES<br \/>\n(or how I remember it)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIn a stranger I found the kneecaps<br \/>\nof my first husband,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHemingway-white<br \/>\nlinen he wore on our wedding day<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nsneaking tiny bottles, his liquor lips<br \/>\non the back of the bay mimicking his father\u2019s<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nin the sea mist\u2014 I, corseted in<br \/>\nchampagne flutes bubbled<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\napple cider, a sugar high or<br \/>\nlove, perhaps.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nQuick-switch with one facial tic: ex-boyfriend,<br \/>\nOctober snares of domestic delusion<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nplump in Hawaiian print, the day we met holding<br \/>\na typewriter he never used,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI never used. His gifts as unimagined as they<br \/>\nwere non-existent,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\na fallacy.<br \/>\nHe\u2019s never read Hunter S. Thompson, anyway.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSo, why does this stranger repulse the crowd?<br \/>\nHe\u2019s plucked our thoughts with the strong hands of<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nan egoist; and so, my first husband returns<br \/>\nto this unlikely collage of sexuality<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nresurrected in stood-up peach fuzz\u2014 erotic now, but then:<br \/>\nI was just a teenager. A child<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhiding in groves tucked beneath desert hills,<br \/>\nif only my mother cared to snuff out<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\norange blossoms stuck to powdered skin in<br \/>\ncreases, indented thighs and white, cotton underwear,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhardened leaves braided into an un-tamed ponytail\u2014<br \/>\nI thought I was as grown as he.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYet, decades have passed between<br \/>\nlovers. This man has caught my gaze:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ndevious, witting, could he know this<br \/>\nis how my mistress snared my ankle last spring?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI, transparent in his history, if only he knew then<br \/>\nI would change the course of his battalion\u2019s army,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nan accidental obsession,<br \/>\nhis wife, an object<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI told her: It was never about sex,<br \/>\nanyway.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAnd here on the F, a dimple deeper than my grandfather\u2019s,<br \/>\na canyon, a precipice, a mountain to be climbed<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nby thighs and hips pale, withholding cheeks<br \/>\nkeeping hibernated secrets safe through the winter.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThis montage of lovers\u2014<br \/>\nseven-year heartbreaks: the ex-lover who<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nnever called from his Midwestern fields,<br \/>\nnow a father; I waited<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nchildless\u2014<br \/>\na childless mother for as many years<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nas I\u2019ve been with men,<br \/>\nwith men<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nnecks-naped and wrists<br \/>\nraped;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m barren, a collage. Numbers too high now to count.<br \/>\nA stranger sits next to me on the train to Queens.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe sweats out cheap wine;<br \/>\nI may be in love with him.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nErica Hoffmeister is a 2015 graduate of Chapman University, earning an MFA in Creative Writing with an emphasis in poetry and an MA in English. She has been published in the literary journal Split Lip Magazine, and received an honorable mention for the Lorian Hemingway Short Story Prize in 2014.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Knight\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Shareen Knight<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAM I A SECRET?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAm I a secret? Did you tell your lover, mother,<br \/>\nbrother, sister about me? Do I exist<br \/>\nin your world, or any other world that you know of,<br \/>\nthat you\u2019ve explored or guessed exists?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThere are things we don\u2019t tell,<br \/>\nnot to anyone, especially not the relatives,<br \/>\nand certainly not the neighbors<br \/>\nwho have all made it their business,<br \/>\nthis relationship that exists<br \/>\nbetween you and me.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSo, what then? Should I send cards,<br \/>\nlike Christmas, Lent, birthdays and bar mitzvahs,<br \/>\nor when you go into hospital at the end<br \/>\nof a long vacation in the Caribbean<br \/>\nwith your lover, or your mother,<br \/>\nwhich probably amounts to the same<br \/>\nthing about now, I mean where are you<br \/>\nin your life?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAm I a secret? Did I ever exist at all<br \/>\nin your life?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTell me now, so we can go on being<br \/>\nfriends, or however it is you explain<br \/>\nmy presence.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShareen Knight is an artist and writer who lives on the edge of the world in the remote coastal mountains of British Columbia, where she documents the landscape through photography, writes plays and poetry and is currently working on a work of fiction about a Cuban exile and Caribbean folklore. Current work can be found at The Persimmon Tree, Wild Quarterly, River &amp; South Review, *82 Review and White Stag Journal. Art work at Limestone (Cover), amongst others. She can be reached at <a href=\"mailto:shareenknight@gmail.com\">shareenknight@gmail.com<\/a> and <a href=\"http:\/\/shareenknight.blogspot.ca\/\">shareenknight.blogspot.ca<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Linden\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Kaye Linden<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTHE WET<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMa, aboriginal toothless shaman, tosses her ninety-nine year old bones behind the steering wheel of the windowless jeep and jams her foot down on the accelerator. Desert driving, flash flood driving, rising waters near the top of the hubcaps and trackless tires sinking fast into whirling mud swirls. Sky blows blacker than her skin, wind whips welts into her hanging jawline, Ma pains on, the falling down mulga-wood homestead in sight, too distant on the boiling roiling horizon, straight one line straight line straight ahead no wavering but straight the shortest distance between two points. Rain pouring torrential, blinding into her old eyes, she keeps driving through driving rain to get home before the rusty untrusty jeep sinks deep into sudden ravines and eddies that grow fatter and hungrier. She reaches the leaning splitting woodpile homestead in the raining pouring driving wet, the wet, the Alice Springs wet, the wet that only those people who live in The Alice know and understand. The homestead swirls under water, turning and topsy and turvy and upside down and inside out, her favorite rocking chair in pieces, rusted pots banging together with an eerie sound like a bell tolling, the scraggy brown Kelpie swimming to meet her, tongue lolly-gagging \u201chello\u201d, brown eyes yellowed and alight, but Ma\u2019s jeep coughs and rattles and chokes and sinks with Ma not a swimmer but a hiker with strong old rambling legs sunk into army boots that now anchor her down in mud. She grabs the old dog\u2019s matted neck and they both go down and around, thunder announcing their pending demise, kookaburra laughter long gone, gasping and hacking and gurgling Ma turns her face up level with the water, eyes turned to the heavens, to the ancient gods whose invisible hands don\u2019t reach out.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u201cWhere are you, you bastards?\u201d she shouts to the sky and the dog whines a carping whittling fingernails-down-the blackboard cry that only those from Alice Springs, understand, only those from The Alice who have witnessed bleached brittle bones baked in desert heat and the dreadful prayers of those on a run for their lives, only those understand. Panting dog and woman cling to each other, going down, going down, going down but with a whoosh and a slosh the water suddenly stops,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe rain stops,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe rivers stop,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe widening knife-like gaps in red mud close and Ma, army boots ankle-deep in mud, stands on her feet again, holding the dog in her arms, standing in the watery footprints of a flash flood in Australian desert,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhere now,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthere now,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ngone.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nKaye Linden, born and raised in Sydney, Australia, is a Registered Nurse with an MFA in fiction, now studying for an MFA in poetry. She is past short fiction editor and editor with the Bacopa Literary Review, occasional teacher of short fiction at Santa Fe College, assistant editor for Soundings Review, previous judge for Spark Anthology, and medical editor for \u201cepresent learning lecture reviews.\u201d Kaye\u2019s work is widely published. Her books include <i>Prasanga in the Underground World, Tales from Ma\u2019s Watering Hole<\/i> and <i>Ten Thousand Miles from Home<\/i>, available on all book sites and at <a href=\"http:\/\/www.kayelinden.com\/the-wet\/\">kayelinden.com\/the-wet\/<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Lindsley\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Jessica Lindsley<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nROCKS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDusty cab of the field truck, i belted out the words to every old rock<br \/>\nand roll song on the static of the am station<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwith a kind of naked immodesty that comes from having no idea<br \/>\nwhat the lyrics mean, with lips never kissed\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhard to believe atoms hold together in the face of everything,<br \/>\nthe cosmic coldness of a frigid rock hurtling<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthrough the path of a billion other rocks. Imagine young atoms<br \/>\nin a kindergarten,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nholding hands and playing Red Rover, or in a middle school party,<br \/>\nplaying spin the bottle.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nImagine a world a little less like the one we know\u2014perhaps,<br \/>\ni should forgive you\u2026<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDid i look like Lolita, all child-face and calculation as i sang<br \/>\nBrown Sugar at the top of my lungs?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJessica Lindsley grew up in North Dakota before the oil boom. Her work has been published in the Smoking Poet, Blackwood Press, Thirteen Myna Birds, DEAD SNAKES, cryopoetry, and other publications.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Machan\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Katharyn Howd Machan<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWHEN RUMPELSTILTSKIN WAS A STRIPPER<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhe danced in gold\u2014oh!<br \/>\nhe danced in gold above the straw<br \/>\nof the sloppy floors of a Key West bar<br \/>\nenchanting every soul desiring<br \/>\nthe power to claim quick love<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ngold upon his cheeks and thighs,<br \/>\ngold within his sunswept eyes,<br \/>\nDuval Street the perfect stage<br \/>\nfor his long longing in a world<br \/>\nneeding magic\u2019s thrust<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbump shimmy grind express<br \/>\nsex more sex as soul\u2019s unrest<br \/>\nshimmering the metal sought<br \/>\nby pirates and all treasure-starved<br \/>\ndivers past young brother\u2019s death<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRumpelstiltskin hid his name<br \/>\nin a secret folded notch<br \/>\nno one but the queenliest<br \/>\nwould ever dare<br \/>\nto touch<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand always in his audience<br \/>\nhe found someone to fill his night<br \/>\nwith all his promises turned real:<br \/>\nshining crown upon a head<br \/>\nhis lonely mouth\u2014oh!\u2014didn\u2019t have to steal<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nKatharyn Howd Machan, Professor of Writing at Ithaca College, holds degrees from the College of Saint Rose, the University of Iowa, and Northwestern University. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines; in anthologies and textbooks such as The Bedford Introduction to Literature, The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2013, Poetry: An Introduction, Early Ripening: American Women\u2019s Poetry Now, Sound and Sense, Writing Poems, Literature: Reading and Writing the Human Experience; and in 32 collections, most recently Wild Grapes: Poems of Fox (Finishing Line Press, 2014), H (Gribble Press, 2014\u2014national winner) and When She\u2019s Asked to Think of Colors (Palettes &amp; Quills Press, 2009\u2014national winner). Former director of the national Feminist Women\u2019s Writing Workshops, Inc., she edited Adrienne Rich: A Tribute Anthology (Split Oak Press, 2012).<br \/>\n<a id=\"Magistrale\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Tony Magistrale<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBAD GIRL<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThat was what she called herself<br \/>\nevery time I went to visit her<br \/>\ndown in her mother\u2019s basement<br \/>\nNothing but a mattress on the floor<br \/>\ntwo chairs and a television set<br \/>\nI would enter through the back door<br \/>\nafter I dropped the cheerleaders home<br \/>\nby curfew at their fathers\u2019 front doors<br \/>\nShe was always there watching Carson<br \/>\nbecause she never had to work in the morning<br \/>\nsmoking cigarettes or painting her nails<br \/>\nWhen I was seventeen<br \/>\nas much terrified as eroticized<br \/>\nby her fleshy strangeness<br \/>\nher red lips and hair<br \/>\nA vampire-like Lucy Westenra<br \/>\nafter The Change to voluptuousness<br \/>\nas I sat on the straight-back chair<br \/>\nacross from her bed<br \/>\nuttering banalities that made her snort smoke<br \/>\nHolding onto my virginity like a crucifix<br \/>\nuncertain how to let it go.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTony Magistrale is Professor of English at the University of Vermont. He is the author of three books of poetry: <i>What She Says About Love<\/i> (Bordighera Press 2008), <i>The Last Soldiers of Love<\/i> (Literary Laundry 2012), and the most recently published <i>Entanglements<\/i> (Fomite 2013).<br \/>\n<a id=\"Marcus\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>MD Marcus<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMARIONETTE&#8217;S WALTZ<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI loved him once before<br \/>\nwith wide eyes<br \/>\neager feet<br \/>\nLoved him with a love that comes<br \/>\nbut twice,<br \/>\nor thrice if you\u2019re a slow learner,<br \/>\nwith notes and with blows<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNow he\u2019s returned a-knocking<br \/>\na fisheye lens distorts the view<br \/>\nMy hands meet behind my back<br \/>\nclosed fists tight<br \/>\nMy heart settles<br \/>\ninto the heels of my feet,<br \/>\nweighted down<br \/>\nimmobile and defenseless.<br \/>\nHe seeps back in<br \/>\nthrough all the holes<br \/>\nthat had been left behind<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOver the threshold he goes<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMD Marcus is a freelance writer and poet living in the past.  Recent work can be found on <a href=\" http:\/\/www.salon.com\/2014\/12\/25\/how_i_became_homeless\/\">Salon<\/a> as well as in <a href=\" http:\/\/issuu.com\/clockwisecat\/docs\/femmewise_cat_part_i?e=13963388\/11675814\"> Femmewise Cat Part 1<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/www.calliopemagazine.com\/\">Calliope Magazine<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/rpdsociety.com\/\">The Rain, Party, and Disaster Society<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/www.inflightlitmag.com\/issues\/issue2\/author.html?author=MD Marcus&amp;work1=he swore the sun set in my eyes%2C%0Ahis life renewed between my thighs&amp;work2=Raisinets\">In-Flight Literary Magazine<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/www.roundupzine.com\/\">The Round Up<\/a>, the <a href=\"http:\/\/motherhoodmaycausedrowsiness.com\/\">Monkey Star Press<\/a> anthology \u201cMotherhood May Cause Drowsiness\u201d, and the <a href=\"http:\/\/cms.reddashboard.com\/collections\/#Disorder\">Red Dashboard Publishing<\/a> anthology, \u201cdis-or-der.\u201d Please read everything she writes, follow\/like her on <a href=\"http:\/\/instagram.com\/md.marcus\" target=\"\u201d_blank\u201d\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Instagram<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/www.facebook.com\/MDMarcusWriter\" target=\"\u201d_blank\u201d\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Facebook<\/a>, <a href=\"http:\/\/pinterest.com\/mdmarcus\/\" target=\"\u201d_blank\u201d\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Pinterest<\/a>, <a href=\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/mdmarcuswriter\" target=\"\u201d_blank\u201d\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Twitter<\/a>, and visit her at <a href=\"http:\/\/www.mdmarcus.com\" target=\"\u201d_blank\u201d\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">mdmarcus.com<\/a><a id=\"Mark\"><\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Michael Mark<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHER SISTER, HIM, HER AND ME, MAYBE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m listening to her<br \/>\ntell him she<br \/>\nhas the wrong karma.<br \/>\nShe lists proof: her car,<br \/>\nher job, her kid.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe says that\u2019s <em>bad<\/em> karma.<br \/>\nNo, she has her twin sister\u2019s<br \/>\nkarma, she says, and vice versa.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe lists her sister\u2019s cars,<br \/>\nher house and<br \/>\nthat she doesn\u2019t have to work<br \/>\nbecause of a lawsuit.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen he asks to meet the sister,<br \/>\nher fingers snake around his<br \/>\nlike a python<br \/>\nswallowing a pig.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe must be thinking,<br \/>\nwith all the sane, pretty girls there,<br \/>\nhe\u2019s the one<br \/>\nwith the messed-up karma.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIf he gets free,<br \/>\nI might have the right karma<br \/>\nto change both of theirs.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMichael Mark is a hospice volunteer and long distance walker. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Gargoyle Magazine, Gravel Literary Journal, Lost Coast Review, Rattle, Ray\u2019s Road Review, San Pedro Review, Scapegoat Journal, Spillway, Tar River Poetry, Sugar House Review, and other nice places. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. <a href=\"http:\/\/www.michaeljmark.com\">michaeljmark.com<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Mayo\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Tim Mayo<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCROW<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019ve been thinking how this poem<br \/>\ncomes and goes as the crow flies,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\npicking at the raw red pieces of me<br \/>\nit finds smeared between the yellow lines<br \/>\nof my road\u2013\u2013how a poem can hover<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nover the flesh and sinews of the spirit,<br \/>\nso all you feel of the sky<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nis a piercing needle of want<br \/>\nas the poem\u2019s long beak<br \/>\npokes at all your wanting parts.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSo what I have wanted\u2013\u2013no\u2013\u2013needed\u2013\u2013<br \/>\nis for this poem to open<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nits dark metaphoric wings, to take flight<br \/>\nwith that one last piece of me<br \/>\nin its beak, to carry it to your nest,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nweave the long skinny sinew of it<br \/>\ninto the delicate mesh of your twig-lined house,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nto let it nestle in your soft egg-haven,<br \/>\nand then, what I need is for this poem<br \/>\nto make you have of me more than this<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nsmall spurt of poetry this bird<br \/>\ninsinuates into your life.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTim Mayo lives in Brattleboro, Vermont, USA, where he works in a mental institution. His poems and reviews have appeared in Narrative Magazine, Poetry International, Poet Lore, River Styx, Salamander, San Pedro River Review, Tar River Poetry, Verse Daily, and The Writer\u2019s Almanac. His collection The Kingdom of Possibilities was published by Mayapple Press in 2009 He\u2019s a four time Pushcart Prize Nominee and has been a top finalist for the annual Paumanok Award.<br \/>\n<a id=\"McRae\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Bruce McRae<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTHE SPIDER SAYS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m familiar with apprehension,<br \/>\naware of doubt, sympathetic to terror.<br \/>\nConsider me a patient knot in a thread,<br \/>\na little stone calling to the dark of the world,<br \/>\nthe multi-eyed beast in her sullen quarter;<br \/>\nshe who is tethered to a latch or a hair.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe spider says Sweet fly, sweetmeat,<br \/>\nthink me the wraith to your gummy end,<br \/>\nmy door invitingly ajar, the table always set.<br \/>\nAnd these are my babies, my thousands,<br \/>\nso curious, so ravenous, nimble copies<br \/>\nof copies, sentient pebbles fleeing hunger\u2019s edge.<br \/>\nIt is they, era-perfect, who scurry.<br \/>\nI set them loose upon the edible earth.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPushcart nominee Bruce McRae is a Canadian musician with over 900 poems published around the world. His first book, <i>The So-Called Sonnets<\/i>, is available via Silenced Press and Amazon. To see and hear more poems go to \u2018BruceMcRaePoetry\u2019 on YouTube.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Mead\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Stephen Mead<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nONCE WERE HICKEYS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThese small purple spots,<br \/>\nsomething love made, or lust,<br \/>\nunnoticed in the moment of dark,<br \/>\nbut for wanting sighs\u2026<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIs the flesh rusting now<br \/>\nfrom those nibbles &amp; what else<br \/>\ncame in colors no naked eye<br \/>\ncould see the you of<br \/>\nin me?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nChemicals &amp; swabs<br \/>\nnow stain, poke this canvas<br \/>\nfor slides the microscopic brush<br \/>\nshall enlarge as a testament:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthat swatch of viral samples\u2026<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSimple, it is art of the spirit<br \/>\nin the physical manifest<br \/>\nscience makes use of<br \/>\nas our lovely landscape of cells<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhums on.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAs a writer and artist publishing for the last three decades, Stephen Mead has finally gotten around to getting links to his poetry still online at various zines available in one place: <a href=\"http:\/\/stephenmead.weebly.com\/links-to\/poetry-on-the-line-stephen-mead\">stephenmead.weebly.com\/links-to\/poetry-on-the-line-stephen-mead<\/a>. His latest Amazon release is <i>Our Spirit Life<\/i>, a poetry\/art meditation on family heritage, love, and the evanescence of time. For Christmas 2014 he released a sound collage song cycle, <i>Threnody for a Forgotten Plague<\/i>, a series-in-progress, dealing with the early days of the AIDS Pandemic, free to listen to via <a href=\"http:\/\/amazingtunes.com\/stephenmead\/albums\/24122\">amazingtunes.com\/stephenmead\/albums\/24122<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Merchant\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Megan Merchant<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nEVEN PUT BACK TOGETHER,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nyou can\u2019t expect<br \/>\na fractured wing<br \/>\nto heal over<br \/>\nthe clump of tape<br \/>\nand crude stick propped<br \/>\noutright.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou can\u2019t expect it will<br \/>\neventually flap.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI believe you are doing<br \/>\nyour best.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBut if I could count<br \/>\neach slight as a grain<br \/>\nof salt and slip it into<br \/>\nour sheets,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbetween tears and sweat,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwe\u2019d be an ocean<br \/>\ndissolving in a drain.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLove,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nit\u2019s common sense\u2014the wing<br \/>\nwill heal angled,<br \/>\nbent.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nEven after slipping the stick<br \/>\nfree,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nit will fly as though splinters<br \/>\nare piercing each beat.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAnd when it catches its crude<br \/>\nreflection<br \/>\nover a water stain,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nit will believe<br \/>\nit was the light<br \/>\nthat captured it<br \/>\nall wrong.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPRAYER FOR THE SICK<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy sweet boy<br \/>\nshits himself for six days.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI swaddle him in diapers,<br \/>\neven though he should be in school.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhat sleep<br \/>\ncomes in cracks between<br \/>\nlarge slabs of night\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ncradling his sweat-blistered head,<br \/>\nsoothing his febrile chatter,<br \/>\nhelping him sit.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe small mechanics<br \/>\nhe learned years ago, juddering now.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<em>Open wide<\/em>. I find myself pleading.<br \/>\nThere\u2019s mush on this spoon\u2014flake-white rice.<br \/>\nIt will heal you.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI feel the squalor-grief of every dirt-caked<br \/>\nchild with a plumped hunger belly,<br \/>\nof every mom with caked-dry breasts.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFor a quarter a day.<br \/>\nBut who is going to stop the flies ?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<em>Open wide. Please, open wide.<\/em><br \/>\nThis warm snow will melt the moon.<br \/>\nLet it fill you.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI fear that if we pray, our pleas<br \/>\nwill ache about the room,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand <em>thwap<\/em><br \/>\nand <em>thwap<\/em>,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nuseless as a yarn fly-swatter.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMegan Merchant graduated from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas after completing her M.F.A degree in poetry. Her poems and translations have appeared in publications including <i>The Atlanta Review, Kennesaw Review, Margie, International Poetry Review<\/i> and <i>The Poetry of Yoga<\/i>. She was the winner of the Las Vegas Poets Prize, judged by Tony Hoagland. She is the author of two chapbooks : <i>Translucent, Sealed,<\/i> (Dancing Girl Press, 2015) and <i>In the Rooms of a Tiny House<\/i> ( ELJ Publications, October 2016). Her first full-length collection, <i>Gravel Ghosts<\/i> (Glass Lyre Press) will be making its way into the world summer of 2016. Her first children\u2019s book, <i>These Words I\u2019ve Shaped For You<\/i>, will be also appearing in 2016 through Philomel Books. Her future is bright. She wears shades.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Mishkin\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Tracy Mishkin<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIN THIS ECONOMY, YOU TAKE WHAT YOU CAN GET<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe\u2019s a sweet old beast, the bear of bad news,<br \/>\nbut who likes to see him shambling over?<br \/>\nThe air stills where he walks<br \/>\nas if he were an ursine gunslinger.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe doesn\u2019t smell like honey or salmon,<br \/>\nmore like dried blood from some forgotten,<br \/>\naccidental mauling. He sidles up, whispers<br \/>\n<em>Gas prices gonna double. And by the way,<br \/>\nyour favorite uncle\u2019s dead.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOther times he scratches his rump on a tree<br \/>\nuntil you realize <em>If I\u2019d played my wife\u2019s birthday<br \/>\non Powerball instead of my girlfriend&#8217;s,<br \/>\nI\u2019d have won a hundred bucks.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe\u2019s a bear of all trades: serves the big crap sandwich<br \/>\nand the little one. He can climb trees like a black bear,<br \/>\nswim like a polar bear. But he\u2019s tired of dodging bullets,<br \/>\nall that shooting the messenger, wishes he were<br \/>\na good news bear.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSometimes he tries humor: <em>Grab your life jacket\u2014<br \/>\nthe bathroom\u2019s flooded again.<\/em> It doesn\u2019t go over well.<br \/>\nHe misses hibernating, but his is no seasonal position.<br \/>\nHe has to share what he\u2019s got when he\u2019s got it.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTracy Mishkin is a call center veteran with a PhD and an MFA student in Creative Writing at Butler University. Her chapbook, <em>I Almost Didn&#8217;t Make It to McDonald&#8217;s<\/em>, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2014. Her work has appeared in <em>Reckless Writing 2013: The Continued Modernization of Poetry<\/em> and <em>Little Patuxent Review<\/em>. She has poems forthcoming in <em>The Quotable<\/em> and <em>Postcard Poems and Prose<\/em>.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Moore\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Jocelyn Moore<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAN UNLIKELY ASSASSIN<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou\u2019re not the typical assassin.<br \/>\nIn fact, you look like a grandmother,<br \/>\nphotos of your progeny<br \/>\npropped on the piano you never play.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nEvery Sunday you parade<br \/>\nto church with instructions for God.<br \/>\nYour holy, humble, pious persona perfectly performed<br \/>\nuntil lunch, when the murderess emerges.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOn your dining table, a smorgasbord<br \/>\nof smug self-righteousness,<br \/>\nside salad of slander and bowl of smashed reputations.<br \/>\nOut of earshot, you bludgeon fellow worshipers.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIf only the Christian army shoots the wounded,<br \/>\nthen you earned your marksman\u2019s medal.<br \/>\nA sniper camouflaged in Bible verses.<br \/>\nA she-wolf in the Shepherd\u2019s clothing.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJocelyn Moore is a westerner living at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Her favorite writing spot is in a 1953 log cabin in the Wyoming wilderness overlooking a glacially carved lake. She writes her observations of nature, people and unrequited love. While she waited for Rat&#8217;s Ass Review to make up its mind, she had two other pieces accepted by quicker-witted editors elsewhere, and struggled home from the Post Office under the weight of contributors&#8217; copies of yet another publication.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Pobo\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Kenneth Pobo<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJULIE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI listen to Bobby Sherman ask<br \/>\nif Julie loves him. Perhaps she did<br \/>\nin 1970. I wasn\u2019t in love then<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthough I pictured naked men often,<br \/>\nprayed that I would stop that\u2014<br \/>\nI was supposed to dwell<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\non Julie, any Julie. Rock n roll,<br \/>\nso damned straight,<br \/>\nSunday School with a beat. We weren\u2019t<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nborn to be wild&#8211;we were born<br \/>\nto do hetero stuff, a plangy<br \/>\nguitar leading the way. I learned<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nhow to queer lyrics: Julie<br \/>\nbecame Danny&#8211;when we kissed,<br \/>\nour town rose through a tear<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nin the sky, hovered.<br \/>\nWe stayed high above<br \/>\nas it dropped back down to earth.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nKenneth Pobo has a new book forthcoming from Blue Light Press called <i>Bend Of Quiet<\/i>. His work has appeared in: <i>Mudfish, Nimrod, Profane, The Queer South Anthology<\/i> (Sibling Rivalry Press), and elsewhere. He loves 60s music, often the flops. And dahlias, madness on a stem. Twitter <a href=\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/KenPobo\">@KenPobo<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Scholl\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Sharon Scholl<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBY CHANCE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy grandson bursts through the door,<br \/>\nhis smile vibrating like a jar of shaken candy.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNo reason he is here, safe,<br \/>\nsplitting his seams with another year\u2019s growth,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nnot gray-stiff in a sinking grave<br \/>\nwith me bent like boneless flesh upon the dirt.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNo reason I am here, braced<br \/>\nagainst the flying leap of his small<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\necstatic body, not trembling<br \/>\nwith frailty, pillows at my crumbling back.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWe are accidents of time, whenever<br \/>\nnow is, my small fraction of forever,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ncoincidents of place, wherever<br \/>\nhome turned out to be.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI merely revel in the solid smack<br \/>\nof his chest slamming me windless.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSharon Scholl is the usual retired professor who finally has time to write. She has the usual publications (<i>Clementine, Cahaba River Literary Journal, Heron Tree<\/i>) with several collections: <i>Message on a Branch<\/i> (yellow jacket Press) <i>All Points Bulletin<\/i> (Closet Books). A practicing musician, she maintains an extensive website that gives away music free to small, financially struggling groups. Otherwise, she serves on too many committees and boards and has a growing allergy to meetings.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Simon\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Terri Simon<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTHE NEW NORMAL<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt&#8217;s not until after,<br \/>\nafter the minister has bowed<br \/>\nhis head and said his words,<br \/>\nplaced the box in the niche in the wall,<br \/>\nafter the out-of-town relations<br \/>\nhave hugged their goodbyes,<br \/>\nand the leftovers have been wrapped<br \/>\nand carefully put away,<br \/>\nafter the dust-to-dust has settled,<br \/>\nthat you really hear the silence.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFrom the other room,<br \/>\nyou should hear a foot fall,<br \/>\nthe clack of the keyboard,<br \/>\nor just the quiet clearing of a throat.<br \/>\nYou call his name,<br \/>\nwondering where he could have gone to<br \/>\nthis time,<br \/>\nthen catch yourself,<br \/>\nclosing your lips around the syllables,<br \/>\nafraid to let them go,<br \/>\nworried they will leave you alone.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou know (or is it hope?)<br \/>\nyou will do this fewer<br \/>\ntimes each day,<br \/>\nyou will stop mistaking strangers<br \/>\nin the grocery store.<br \/>\nSlowly, stop hearing<br \/>\nhis voice in your ear while you sleep.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou know (or is it fear?)<br \/>\nthat someday you&#8217;ll find breathing<br \/>\nisn&#8217;t a betrayal,<br \/>\nevery note of music<br \/>\nisn&#8217;t his song.<br \/>\nYou may even find<br \/>\na new restaurant<br \/>\nthat&#8217;s just as good as the old one,<br \/>\na wine that&#8217;s not too sweet<br \/>\nor too bitter.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTerri Simon has degrees from Sarah Lawrence College (Writing\/Literature) and Virginia Tech (Computer Science) and works in IT. She lives in Laurel, Maryland with her husband and dogs. Her work has appeared in <i>Aberration Labyrinth, Three Line Poetry, Black Mirror Magazine<\/i>, and the anthologies <i>A Mantle of Stars: A Queen of Heaven Devotional, Bright Stars: An Organic Tanka Journal (Volume 1), and Switch (The Difference)<\/i>. She tweets <a href=\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/terricsimon\">@terricsimon<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Simpson\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Catherine F. Simpson<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTHE FIRE ESCAPE<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026.<\/span>Thank you for taking me<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026 \u2026..<\/span>under the fire escape.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026.<\/span>It had the enchanting verve<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">,,,,,,,\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026,,,,<\/span> of the Abstract<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026&#8230;.<\/span>rushing in<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026..\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/span>to replace the futility of the concrete.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/span>The alley possessed a tragic quality<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026.\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/span>beneath that lonesome star<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026..\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026.<\/span>&#8211; against that rusty car<em>.<\/em><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCatherine F. Simpson was born in Belfast, and immigrated to Canada with her parents when the Troubles broke out. She has a B.A in English Literature from University of Toronto and teaches English as a Second Language. She is the writer and presenter of <i>The Americana Show<\/i> on Garden County Radio and is a musician and songwriter. She lives in Greystones with her husband, her daughter, and their 2 pet robots, Dingus and Min-yaz. She is very excited to have her first poem accepted for publication in Rat&#8217;s Ass Review and to have another poem upcoming in the&nbsp;anthology <i>Bye Bye Bukowski<\/i> from Hyacinth Girl Press. She tweets <a href=\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/CKatFury\">@CKatFury<\/a> and blogs at <a href=\"http:\/\/www.catothebog.wordpress.com\">catothebog.wordpress.com<\/a><br \/>\n<a id=\"Steiner\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Julie Steiner<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYOU WIN, GUYS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u201cHell hath no fury like a woman scorned,\u201d<br \/>\nyou say, as if you think those two compete.<br \/>\nCompared to <em>men<\/em>, unhinged and packing heat,<br \/>\nhell hath no fury. Like a woman? Scorned?<br \/>\nExpress your anger\u2014manly, unadorned!\u2014<br \/>\nby shooting random people in the street.<br \/>\nHell hath no fury like a woman scorned,<br \/>\nyou say. As if! You think those two compete?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n#NotAllMen<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nGirls, it was an isolated case:<br \/>\none guy with mental illness. That\u2019s a fact.<br \/>\nDon\u2019t wave your \u201cwomen\u2019s issues\u201d in my face.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m not a predator. I give you space.<br \/>\nWhen off my game, unable to attract<br \/>\ngirls (it was an isolated case),<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI went away. Stop reaching for your mace.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s overkill, the way you chicks react.<br \/>\nDon\u2019t wave your \u201cwomen\u2019s issues\u201d in my face.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m not misogynistic. Not a trace<br \/>\nof male entitlement. Your anger\u2019s jacked,<br \/>\ngirls! It was an isolated case.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBe grateful. In a less enlightened place,<br \/>\nthe <em>norm<\/em> would be for girls to get attacked.<br \/>\nDon\u2019t wave your \u201cwomen\u2019s issues\u201d in my face.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShit happens. Sheesh. Accept it with some grace.<br \/>\nCalm down. Hysteria will get you smacked.<br \/>\nGirls, it was an isolated case.<br \/>\nDon\u2019t wave your \u201cwomen\u2019s issues\u201d in my face.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA longtime participant of Eratosphere (Able Muse&#8217;s online poetry workshop), Julie Steiner is also a member of the international task force to preserve and promote the late British poet M. A. Griffiths&#8217; literary legacy. More details at <a href=\"http:\/\/ramblingrose.com\/grasshopper\/\">rambling rose.com\/grasshopper\/<\/a>. Julie lives in San Diego, California.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Strohm\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Paul m. Strohm<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI&#8217;M DATING ONE OF T. S. ELIOT&#8217;S REJECTS<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m dating one of T.S. Eliot\u2019s rejects.<br \/>\nPoor girl, just sitting at home with nothing to do,<br \/>\nno internet service, no iPhone, no X-Box.<br \/>\nShe seems a very nice person too.<br \/>\nToo introspective, reserved perhaps for me,<br \/>\nI usually like a little bit of rough but when<br \/>\nshe said, \u201ccouchemar!\u201d I came un-glued.<br \/>\nSpeak nasty to me lady and I am yours.<br \/>\nNot totally true, I will need more than<br \/>\nmy dry biscuit dipped in a cup of tea.<br \/>\nI am thinking karma sultry redux here<br \/>\nfollowed by some post climactic dirty talk<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nEliot may have worn the bottoms of his trousers unrolled-<br \/>\nbut my question is \u201cDid he get them completely down?\u201d<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nPaul m. Strohm is a freelance journalist working in Houston, Texas. His poems have appeared in <i>HuKmag.com, the Berkeley Poets Cooperative, The Lake, WiND<\/i>, and other literary outlets. His first collection of poems entitled <i>Closed On Sunday<\/i> is scheduled to be published by the Wellhead Press. He worked at the Humanities Research Center at UT-Austin cataloging the correspondence of D.H. Lawrence. If he had to count the number of times D. H. wrote that imaginative line, \u201cDear ____. How are you?\u201d he would never read <i>Lady Chatterley\u2019s Lover<\/i> again.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Sullivan\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Susan Laura Sullivan<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHOT PEANUT PASTE NIGHT<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe drunks and me<br \/>\nout on this peanut paste<br \/>\nheat night you can smell it<br \/>\nthe peanut paste there\u2019s<br \/>\nno getting through it<br \/>\nthick and heavy as it is wrapped<br \/>\ntight round my shoulders like<br \/>\na shawl it flaps in the wind it<br \/>\nmakes as my bike cuts through this<br \/>\nearly this morning late this night<br \/>\nsleep won\u2019t pin the lids of<br \/>\nmy eyes together and for all I know<br \/>\nthe time could be the time to go<br \/>\nhome but I\u2019m not no I haven\u2019t<br \/>\ndrunk like the drunks drunk with<br \/>\nan excuse to be out so I ride to<br \/>\navoid to observe them and it\u2019s<br \/>\nat the shrine where I feel I shouldn\u2019t<br \/>\nbe doing what I\u2019m doing and<br \/>\nI\u2019m only walking<br \/>\nit\u2019s at the shrine where I wash one<br \/>\nhand in water from the spout of the dragon\u2019s<br \/>\nmouth and then the other<br \/>\nit\u2019s at the shrine where the light<br \/>\nfrom the telephone shines globally saying<br \/>\nsee I\u2019m still awake, why don\u2019t you call me but<br \/>\nthe roosters I\u2019m sure were asleep before I<br \/>\ncame the roosters of the shrine who<br \/>\nstart crowing as I walk footstep<br \/>\nsoft on the concrete leading to<br \/>\nthe big building the roosters who<br \/>\ncall as I sit shadow breath<br \/>\nscared on the steps to one another<br \/>\nand the other and any<br \/>\nmoment now I know a holy man<br \/>\nwill walk in the gravel and disquiet<br \/>\nme with footsteps that will quiet<br \/>\nthe birds and ask what I\u2019m doing<br \/>\non the steps there shadow breath<br \/>\nscared at no time at all<br \/>\non this hot paste night.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSusan Laura Sullivan\u2019s <em>Reasons for Song<\/em> was shortlisted for the 2012 T.A.G. Hungerford Award for an unpublished novel. She has been widely published, including by Harper Collins\/Radio National (Australia), <i>The Font<\/i>, and <i>Uneven Floor<\/i>. She co-founded the Toyohashi Writers\u2019 Group, and holds a creative writing MCA. For more of Susan\u2019s work, go <a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1070#Sullivan2\">here<\/a>.  <a id=\"Sutherland\"><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<\/a><a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>J. A. Sutherland<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nL\u2019APR\u00c9S-MIDI<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou left a window open in the living room.<br \/>\nDidn\u2019t think it dangerous or risky.<br \/>\nBesides, only a small child could gain entry,<br \/>\nand it\u2019s been some time since<br \/>\nadults had unscrupulous kids<br \/>\nclimb chimneys, burgle houses,<br \/>\nor pick a pocket or two.<br \/>\nYou left a window open in the living room.<br \/>\nYou\u2019d double-locked the front door;<br \/>\nall other entrances (or exits) were blocked;<br \/>\nyou\u2019d be back soon. You\u2019d only popped<br \/>\nout for a pint of milk or something<br \/>\nequally mundane. All the same,<br \/>\nthat open window bothered you.<br \/>\nA person of precaution,<br \/>\nyou were not the sort to leave to chance<br \/>\nan open goal for any passing opportunist.<br \/>\nYou double-locked your life:<br \/>\nnever left your bag unguarded;<br \/>\ncovered the keypad when entering your pin;<br \/>\nnever gave your password out to anyone.<br \/>\nBut then \u2013 but then \u2013 you left a window open.<br \/>\nAnd someone \u2013 or something \u2013 got in.<br \/>\nIt was around 3 in the afternoon,<br \/>\nyou returned without any surprises,<br \/>\nand there in your room a creature stirred,<br \/>\nalthough you couldn\u2019t see or touch it.<br \/>\nYou stopped because you heard \u2013<br \/>\nor thought so \u2013 no: could sense<br \/>\na spirit that you couldn\u2019t put your finger on.<br \/>\nNor taste, nor smell, nor any other instinct<br \/>\ncould explain its presence.<br \/>\nShould you leave the window<br \/>\nopen for this strange beast to escape?<br \/>\nYou paused, since<br \/>\nthat would surely be a waste.<br \/>\nShould you close the window?<br \/>\nTo fathom this position, newly-poised,<br \/>\nyou had to make a choice.<br \/>\nOnly then \u2013 only then \u2013 you heard a voice.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJ. A. Sutherland is an emerging writer, performing frequently on the Edinburgh spoken-word scene, at events such as 10Red, Caesura, Caf\u00e9 Voices and Speakeasy at the Scottish Storytelling Centre, and with groups such as Illicit Ink, Inky Fingers, and Blind Poetics. For three consecutive years Sutherland received Special Merit in the Scottish National Galleries <i>Inspired? Get Writing!<\/i> competition.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBesides poetry, Sutherland has had short stories published, and writes drama for theatre, radio and spoken-word performance, and regularly blogs on throughtheturretwindow@blogspot.com<br \/>\n<a id=\"Triella\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>S. Triella<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTHALIA<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia was Ginger\u2019s summer lover.<br \/>\nShe\u2019d show up unexpectedly, kick off her boots,<br \/>\nand shed her ridiculous pork-pie hat<br \/>\nand pastel abstract-print sundress.<br \/>\nShe loved slow food and fast fucking,<br \/>\nand sometimes the reverse.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia loved old movies, <em>Children of Paradise<\/em> her favorite,<br \/>\nas seen through too much Cabernet&#8211;<br \/>\na little tart, lean, trace of tannin.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe loved taunting the neighbor\u2019s dog,<br \/>\nand Rollerblading without a helmet.<br \/>\nShe loved pot and would cadge it however she could,<br \/>\nonce with a messy hand job to a stranger in the men\u2019s room<br \/>\nbetween sets of the Gizmos at the Troll Club.<br \/>\n\u201cCan you smell it on me still?\u201d she whispered to Ginger tauntingly<br \/>\nin her delightful husky, gawky alto accent,<br \/>\nsharing, out in the lot at 2 a.m.,<br \/>\nthe third and final joint.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia loved games and dildos and humiliating Ginger,<br \/>\nputting a dog collar on her, slapping her once, then kissing her gently,<br \/>\nthen crying because it was so beautiful.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia loved the Doors and the Misfits and the Bitches and the Carpenters<br \/>\nand samba and baroque and especially Medieval chants.<br \/>\nShe loved fetching the paper without pants.<br \/>\nShe loved incense and candles and sit-ups<br \/>\nand farting and laughing and Federico Garcia Lorca and garters and Pilates<br \/>\nand dumbbells and deep kisses and spin classes<br \/>\nand gauzy scarves and sorbet and limoncello.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe loved taking Polaroids of nipples with stemmed cherries perched on them,<br \/>\nand elongated necks covered with whipped cream.<br \/>\nOr of Ginger by the lake.<br \/>\n\u201cTake off your top. No one will see. No one cares.\u201d<br \/>\nPeople saw. People cared. Ginger came involuntarily,<br \/>\nthen slipped on a T-shirt, ate a lovingly compiled lamb sandwich,<br \/>\ndrank Pellegrino,<br \/>\nand felt happier than she ever had.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia went home to Italy. Ginger never saw her again.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThalia flashes through Ginger\u2019s mind now<br \/>\nas Ginger drops her son off at day camp.<br \/>\nShe buys an anti-virus package at Micro Center<br \/>\nand stops for a coffee at Grounds.<br \/>\nFlips through <em>The New Yorker<\/em>.<br \/>\nMunches a muffin. Goes to pee.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe has a second cup,<br \/>\nhears the monks\u2019 remixed chants,<br \/>\nlooks at me, and sees<br \/>\nnothing.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nS. Triella is a poet in Washington, D.C.<br \/>\n<a id=\"Walker\"><\/a><br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Ian Walker<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSLINGIN&#8217; ACME PRODUCTS LIKE SMACK ON A HOT WINTER DAY<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe ratio of things in my life that I actually enjoy to things in my life I actually enjoy is 1:1.<br \/>\nIf this conclusion shocks you, please refer to my references.<br \/>\nI&#8217;m in love with the idea of never getting married.<br \/>\nEmotions are like body fluids, one way or another I&#8217;m coming home dehydrated.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI used to sling Acme products on Highway 66.<br \/>\nI drink with Wile E. Coyote.<br \/>\nI smoke bowls with Elmer Fudd.<br \/>\nI&#8217;m the reason why Porky Pig has a speech impediment.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFuck preconceived notions of those who conceive prematurely.<br \/>\nWhat do you expect when you&#8217;re never expecting?<br \/>\nIf I had a nickel for every kid I&#8217;d never have, I&#8217;d have at least five dollars.<br \/>\nStanza three, line four.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTotally unoriginal.<br \/>\nCompletely misinterpreted.<br \/>\n100% organic.<br \/>\nBig, steaming cup of fuck off and die.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThat&#8217;s a huge fucking piano.<br \/>\nWhat are you gonna do with that?<br \/>\nOh, okay.<br \/>\nNo, really, what the hell are you doing with a baby grand?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSeriously though, Wile E. Coyote has a drinking problem.<br \/>\nMe.<br \/>\nI, however, have a drinking solution.<br \/>\nSmoke so much weed so fast you time travel between high and sober.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLooney Toons themed pornography.<br \/>\nSo many baby grands.<br \/>\nRainbow colored animated genitalia.<br \/>\nChuck Jones in Lithuanian made \u201cfuck me\u201d boots.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThat&#8217;s all folks.<br \/>\nDevastating convenience in the face of unrelenting bullshit.<br \/>\nNow put the poem down and read something with substance.<br \/>\nHeathens.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIan Walker is a Film Studies major with a minor in Creative Writing at the University of Colorado Boulder.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a href=\"#poets\">List of Poets<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=236\/html\/\">Go to Top of Page<\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h5>\n<p style=\"text-align:center\">Edited by Roderick Bates<\/p>\n<\/h5>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<h4>\n<p style=\"text-align:center\">RAT&#8217;S ASS REVIEW VOLUME THREE, ISSUE 1 SUMMER 2015 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/p>\n<\/h4>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>&nbsp; Welcome to the Summer 2015 issue of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review. &nbsp;During our spring submission period we received hundreds of poems from all over the world. We read them all, and we gave many of them lengthy consideration, eventually settling on the collection which appears below. As we promised in our submission guidelines, we have [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":821,"parent":0,"menu_order":31,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-236","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v27.8 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>Volume Three, Issue 1 (2015) -<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Rat&#039;s Ass Review presents new poems by\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=236\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Volume Three, Issue 1 (2015) -\" \/>\n<meta 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