{"id":4242,"date":"2023-09-18T17:44:12","date_gmt":"2023-09-18T21:44:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4242"},"modified":"2026-09-06T10:20:24","modified_gmt":"2026-09-06T14:20:24","slug":"fall-winter-2023-issue","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4242","title":{"rendered":"Fall-Winter 2023 Issue"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>(Cover Art Choices<\/i> by Andrea Damic<\/a>)<\/strong> <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n<\/a>
\n <\/p>\n

The Poetry<\/h3>\n

 
\nKelli Allen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEVEN NOW, SOMEONE ELSE IS PLANNING
\n 
\nhow you might disgrace yourself.
\nGentleness is telling the boy
\nto read beneath a tractor, walnuts
\npoking denim already too worn
\nfor the season. The father and his son
\nare a colony formed in quiet. Even
\nthe roosters know to keep quiet
\nwhen sun might go down. Five strings
\n 
\nfor five fingers and neither male will bet
\nto play first. Kitchens belong to birthing
\nbodies. What\u2019s dried-up stays dust.
\nWe have been lonely in separation
\nfor so long. Fathers do not get to replant
\ntheir own stalks. If a traveler comes between
\nchapters, who decides if the thresher
\ncan wait or if the crop is already ruined? <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nC. J. Anderson-Wu<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSPRING COUNTEROFFENSIVE
\n 
\nafter absorbing the water from
\nmelting snow,
\ngrass and flowers germinate
\n 
\nchamomiles, white clovers, agrostis, poppies, cornflowers,
\nribwort plantains, mallows, apple blossoms, and guelder-roses\u2026
\ntheir names overbrim my page
\n 
\npallas\u2019s gulls reemerge in wetlands,
\ndalmatian pelicans come back to nest,
\nmoor frogs mate by swamps, and
\nbush crickets return to meadows
\n 
\nwe\u2019d loss some companions during
\neach advancement
\nbut the counteroffensive must be achieved
\nbefore we become too few
\n 
\nsome of us would be buried here, while
\nsome of us would be able to unite
\nwith their beloved
\n 
\nif you are the one bringing my parents news about my departure
\ntell them I have no regrets
\nsome of us will live on in the memories of others, and when
\nforests are thawing
\nflowers are blossoming
\nbirds are chirping
\ntadpoles are swimming
\n 
\ni will be remembered
\nand every spring is my counteroffensive<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Kay Anderson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE CARPETED RIVER
\n 
\nOver and over I tread the carpet
\nbetween TV and hallway rising up
\na remnant of the camas prairie.
\nPlease bring back my mind, over there
\ncaught up in the oaks, their rusting leaves.
\nPlay back this time, on repeat, all the scratches.
\nDance away these days just off the shoulder
\nof the river, its sweetness and its way. I\u2019m
\nheading over to the sandbank, to the willows
\nwhile they change into fall, wait for winter.
\nI told you so, they say. I told you about winter.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Beveridge<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAFTERCARE
\n 
\nit’s that last step, the bobble
\nat the end of the workout
\nor ground-meets-hoof after
\na particular stall door kick,
\nand here we are at the end
\nof a career that wasn’t anything
\nto write home about.
\n 
\nAnd so here she is in a new place,
\nevery twitch of a muscle reflected
\nin her eyes. She snorts and cribs,
\nthe barn cats won’t go anywhere near
\nthat stall. New smells for everyone,
\nthings to be suffered before
\nthey can be gotten used to.
\n 
\nShe shies when anyone approaches
\nso I have to almost sneak in,
\nslow steps so she can move
\nto the back of the stall
\nwhen I fork in the hay, add
\na couple scoops of mash
\n 
\nIt’s a few weeks before she
\ncomes over, nuzzles my shoulder
\nand I feel the tibia snap
\nand the melt of all my internal organs
\nand maybe this is the moment
\nwhere things start to get better. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAce Boggess<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n\u201cWHAT WAS THE FIRST BOOK THAT MADE YOU CRY?<\/I>\u201d
\n       [question asked by Theresa Pham]
\n 
\nNot hard labor over stealing bread to feed his kin.
\n 
\nNot when the bishop, robbed, redeems him by silver.
\n 
\nNot awakening of guilt after a final petty crime.
\n 
\nNot suffering, ill-fated, lost Fantine,
\nbaring her teeth for a coin, or torments that her child endures
\nat hands of those wretched ones for whom the book is named:
\nplague rats infesting the story, showing up scene after scene;
\npuppets pulling strings of other puppets in holy theater of misery.
\n 
\nNot deaths, loss, Gavroche shot mocking gendarmes in the streets.
\n 
\nNot love learned, stolen, rent, rebuilt.
\n 
\nNeither times of mercy nor alight with self-defeat.
\n 
\nIt was the instant reconciliation of the end when I gave in
\nat joy of the transcending hero in last life.
\n 
\nThere must have been something wrong with my eyes
\nafter several hundred dry pages of enduring sadness,
\nderring-do advancing through shadows: Valjean\u2019s
\ndying smile a god all worship, few ever fully satisfy. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHannah Bub<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPASSING THROUGH
\n 
\n      \u201c5 dollars to make me stop,\u201d the sign
\nsays to me as my heels beat against the concrete.
\n     Fist closed against the cheek,
\nhis hand strikes her. Her eye nearly
\nswollen shut. An open suitcase pushed
\nagainst the corner of the Walgreens.
\nCrumpled bills inside. A passerby
\non the phone with the police.
\n     What should I have done? I never
\ncarry cash. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEmily Buckner<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA DAUGHTER\u2019S YEARNING
\n 
\nI wish I could go back
\nto times I didn\u2019t listen
\nto your pleas,
\ndidn\u2019t understand
\nthe weight of your loneliness.
\nYour knees shook as you tried
\nto heft it on your own
\nthrough your suffering,
\nand I
\n(selfish as I am)
\nleft you to yourself.
\nIf I had asked for forgiveness
\nbefore the shadows took you
\nwould you have given it to me? <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Carleton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nODE TO A WHIFF
\n 
\nWhen the guys come home from a hiking trip
\nsmelling like a lake of lapsong souchong\u2014flannel shirts
\nthick with firepit, sprawled tents
\nwafting that sweet-smoky scent through the house\u2014
\n 
\nmy synapses flip, ecstatic.
\nI want to rescue their clothes from the wash cycle
\nand bury my nose in the hamper.
\nI\u2019d bottle that fragrance if I could, and flaunt it too.
\n 
\nIn spaces choked with bouquet this and eau de that,
\nI\u2019d turn myself into a campfire censer
\nand waltz around, reeking of charred logs\u2014
\nthe aroma of two a.m.,
\n 
\na hot face, a cold back, sips of moonshine\u2014
\nand if some fellow twirler
\nwere wearing it too, I\u2019d trail their essence
\nlike a cartoon tramp tracking a hot pie.
\n 
\n 
\nWHY I DRIVE THIS ROUTE
\n 
\nOut my car window, they edge the road\u2014lumpy,
\nfalling down in patches, too low to deter anyone,
\n 
\nremnants of a churning plot line in which rocks
\nwere unearthed by plows,
\n 
\nhauled off, and stacked to mark acreage
\nfor newcomers bearing smallpox and oil paints.
\n 
\nThe craggy boundaries gather moss,
\ngrey-green brushwork to match the landscape.
\n 
\nSomething in me loves stones of any type:
\na bowl of pebbles or these historic walls
\n 
\nor whatever brings to light the shifting mineral ball
\nwe live on, whose bumps breach the surface
\n 
\nfor people to flintknap or mortar
\nor pile atop grave markers wedged in dirt. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJared Carter<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCONFITURE
\n 
\nEven the word is soothing \u2013 now
\n       it spreads across
\nA piece of fresh baguette, and how
\n      two cups, embossed
\n 
\nWith fleur-de-lis, fill with hot milk
\n      and coffee poured
\nFrom ivory pitchers \u2013 flow like silk
\n      together, stirred
\n 
\nWith heaps of granulated sweet.
\n      And then, a pause
\nA lighted match, her hand, petite,
\n      a shared Gauloise. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nYuan Changming<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nKH\u00d6\u00d6MEI
\n 
\nA deep double-
\nthroat, singing
\nfrom beyond
\nheaven (or hell)
\nechoing in nature
\nas it finds itself
\nheard in
\na human voice
\nlike a whale\u2019s call
\nperceivable
\nby its like
\neven afar across
\nthe whole Pacific
\n 
\n 
\nI MISS YOU; THEREFORE, I AM
\n(A periodic sentence for Qi Hong)
\n 
\nI am thinking of you being awake all the time
\nI am thinking of you being awake, all the time
\nI am thinking of you, being awake all the time
\nI am, thinking of you being awake all the time<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJackie Chou<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMANGOES AND OTHER DIFFICULTIES
\n 
\nI want mostly
\nwhat I can’t have in life.
\nRipe mangoes in my fruit bowl,
\namong other things.
\n 
\nNot the crisp ones
\nthat are tart to the palate.
\nI’ve told the vendor many times,
\nbut he only smiles at me.
\n 
\nI think of you,
\nas I bite into chunks
\nthat taste like apples.
\nYour hard skin.
\nYour lack of pliancy
\nin our gives and takes. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarisa Cimbal<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nYOU PRETENDED
\n 
\nAnd if you waited by the shuttered window and it was raining, you pretended it was sunny, the light reflecting the geometric patterns on the hardwood floor. And if you watched Alfred Hitchcock movies, ate pizza and played Scrabble, you pretended it was enough. And if you found shooters of Smirnoff vodka in between the couch cushions, you pretended they never existed and threw them in the garbage outside, and if there was a hole in the wall, you pretended it was never there and covered it with a black and white picture of abstract art, and if you said the heat was broken, there was an argument with the super and the police were called, you pretended it was OK by using extra blankets, and if the light from the computer screen and noise from the mouse clicking were keeping you up, you pretended it was all a bad dream and closed your eyes tightly. And if you ate blueberry pancakes and they were burnt, you pretended they were delicious and covered them with maple syrup, and if you threw a taco salad and there was a knife to your throat, you pretended it never happened. And if you came home late, walked up the stairs softly, tip toed into the bedroom, the dog stared at you with big brown eyes, wagged his tail and barked, you whispered Shhh, and heard, Where were you? It\u2019s late! You pretended not to hear. And if you were sad, you listened to some of your favorite songs, Burning Down the House, Our Lips are Sealed<\/i> and Learning to Fly<\/i> and danced around the living room, the lyrics on repeat in your mind, and then you looked in the mirror, stopped pretending and walked out the door. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDon Colburn<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA CLASSROOM IN UVALDE AND A DOORSTEP IN KC
\n 
\nA 10-year-old named Noah somehow kept his head
\nwhen Room 112 became a screaming bloody hell.
\nNoah knew that to survive he must play dead.
\n 
\nThe shooter fired away, kids fell and falling bled.
\nWere any still alive? Eyes shut, Noah couldn\u2019t tell.
\nThe 10-year-old lay still and somehow kept his head.
\n 
\nA teen named Ralph couldn\u2019t know what lay ahead
\nwhen in the dark he rang the wrong door bell.
\nRalph didn\u2019t know that to survive he must play dead.
\n 
\nMr. Lester, 84 and scared, got up from bed,
\npeered out and saw a young black face, the telltale \u201ctell.\u201d
\nHe fired twice without troubling to keep his head.
\n 
\n\u201cPeople come to my door all the time,\u201d his neighbor said.
\nAll sorts, from all around, some with stuff to sell,
\neven a stranger lost \u2014 \u201cI don\u2019t shoot them in the head.\u201d
\n 
\nMore lockdowns with our flags half-mast, more blood shed
\nin schools, on doorsteps \u2014 grief a habit learned too well.
\nA 10-year-old named Noah somehow kept his head.
\nSurvival, we all now know, requires playing dead. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Cossette<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBAPTISM BY NALTREXONE
\n  
\nHere is the drug to replace your drug of choice.
\nChaste white pill, chalky and oval.
\n  
\nHere is the user\u2019s manual,
\ncomplete with warnings and disclaimers
\nand a 1-800 CDC hotline to report
\nadverse side effects not already listed.
\n  
\nAt 1 am, the whirring in my brain begins.<\/p>\n

Climb on this freight train
\nthrottling down phantom tracks away from
\nthe lightning and thunder and sleet
\nbeating on the bedroom window,
\nthe snow and ice casting alien light,
\nghostly glow.<\/i>
\n  
\nA mustached Bulgarian man tells me
\nto curl into a sweaty fetal ball and ride it out.
\nI smell the vodka on his breath and remember
\nthe shining bottles of wine on my wall,
\nthe tequila, whiskey, and gin on the basement bar shelves.
\nI will never touch him, or them, again.
\n  
\nMy Bulgarian friend left when the nausea came,
\ndamp blonde head hung over the white wicker wastebasket.
\n  
\nMy feet grow into plump watermelons,
\nmy fingers shrink into splintered toothpicks.
\n  
\nI was at the Vatican and tried to take confession
\nfrom an English-speaking Polish priest
\nbut made the error of debating the confessor.
\n  
\nFallen star,
\nguilty glutton girl child,
\nyou will not remember this night. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPOST SURGERY
\n 
\nIt is a tender act of love
\nto administer an enema
\nto your spouse
\nand then to inquire
\nabout the results.
\n  
\nIn this marriage
\nour bodies merged
\nintimately creating children
\nand giving, giving
\npancakes, gardens,
\ncollege, cars.
\n 
\nNow home care
\n(and let\u2019s say it,
\nslowly dying)
\njust ourselves
\ngently, gently
\nwith bodies
\nstill sharing.
\n 
\n 
\nESCAPE
\n 
\nI was young enough to sleep in a crib,
\nold enough to stand in it
\nreaching over bars
\nto eat wallpaper
\nsour, crunchy
\nthat I peeled with the sound
\nof a lick played backwards,
\nsound of bonds letting go,
\nbrittle, yellowed, reluctant
\nwhich is when my parents accepting
\nI was the last, the final child,
\nfearing paper poison
\nscraped and painted that wall
\nand bought me a bed.
\nMy earliest memory, a pleasure and a haunt,
\nmy mother who loved babies,
\nmy father who did not,
\nguilt for what I can\u2019t control
\nas I pull duct tape from a roll
\nwith that slurpy sticky sound.
\nTaste of dust, of dead flour.
\nA crib is a prison.
\nEat your way out.
\n 
\n 
\nGRAND CANYON
\n 
\nI say
\nit\u2019s so big so grand
\nyou can\u2019t describe
\nin words
\n 
\nShe the child says
\nyes you can
\nit\u2019s a giant vagina
\nin the earth
\nand some day
\nwill give birth
\nto mountains<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMC<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBEAUTIFUL, SAD, TRAGIC
\n 
\nMother was a creature of lushness, of seething excess
\nand muchness, and while my father\u2019s emotions
\nhad gradations, with predictable correlations
\nbetween inciting incident and consequent mood,
\nmy mother never knew how she might feel
\nabout a thing until it occurred, and her days
\nwere spent being surprised at, again and again,
\nall the ways the world could shock and hurt her.
\n 
\nMy oldest sister, half mother to me,
\nwould find our mother, at midnights, outside,
\nstooped over on the brittle grass, crying.
\nMy sister would ask my mom what was wrong,
\nand my mother would say, I don\u2019t know, go away.
\nHer sadness was finely wrought, textured smooth
\nbut with endless pockets of depression
\nto be discovered throughout each night and day,
\nmaking her life a mystery even to herself,
\nand in the dark, the moon would catch her tears,
\nand her face would shimmer, or to her children
\nit seemed to, and we felt\u2014I felt\u2014drawn
\nto help her, but was rebuffed, and to touch her
\nwas a magnetic and forbidden thing,
\nbecause her body became the temple
\nof her suffering, and her shoulders a yoke
\nbearing the shame of her\u2014inexplicable?\u2014
\nunhappiness, or rather, her mind was one long nerve,
\nand its heat emanated through my life,
\nand I spent my childhood watching, fascinated,
\nto see how the nerve fared that day, if there was numbness
\nmanifested by the spasms of pain that were displayed,
\nintermittently, across my mother\u2019s face.
\n 
\nI always had a desire unfulfilled,
\nto lean into and lay abject on her lap,
\nto catch the tears as she cried,
\nto feel the gravity of her heartbreak
\nand let it flatten me, weighted and prostrated.
\nI once drew a sketch of her in this pose,
\nand titled it, My beautiful, sad, tragic mother,<\/i>
\nand when she found it, she tore it up in fury,
\nbut even in her anger, even as she destroyed
\nwhat for me represented three months\u2019 hard work,
\nI had a passion for her sadness that was beyond
\nall explaining\u2014she was everything, everything,
\nand I would not have known how to love her
\nhad she finally, finally, been happy. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKen Cumberlidge<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE KING OF PERSIA\u2019S PLEASURE
\n 
\nIn 484 BCE, preparing to invade Greece, the Persian king Xerxes I built two floating pontoon bridges across the Hellespont. This met with disaster when a storm destroyed the flax and papyrus cables of the bridges. In his fury, Xerxes ordered the Hellespont to be whipped three hundred times, and had fetters thrown into its waters.<\/i>
\n 
\nXerxes, you would be so proud of us!
\nWe’ve taken your idea and run with it.
\n 
\nMore in complacency than anger, we confess,
\nbut it’s the end result that counts.
\n 
\nA chain of fetters, in the Hellespont?
\nMere impotent display, you must have known.
\n 
\nFor who \u2013 even a King \u2013 could cast a seaway into bondage,
\nplace manacles upon Poseidon’s realm?
\n 
\nIron in salt-water goes to barnacle;
\nto coral reef; to rust.
\n 
\nWhereas Nylon, Polyethylene, Acrylic, PVC…
\nwith these, one can entrammel whole oceans. And we have.
\n 
\nDo we please you, mighty Xerxes? Are you satisfied?
\nIs this revenge enough? <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTony Dawson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPROLOGUE TO THE GOVERNOR\u2019S TALE
\n 
\nGiven that friars are now so sparse,
\nwho should be lodged in Satan\u2019s arse?
\nThe Tory government\u2019s ship of fools
\nthat\u2019s utterly corrupt and breaks the rules.
\nThe Tories equate to Chaucer\u2019s friars,
\nvenal and greedy and consummate liars.
\nThey do what they can to milk the system.
\nHow in hell\u2019s name has Satan missed \u2019em?
\nWherever you look the land\u2019s in a mess:
\nthe privatized railways, the NHS…
\nFive Tory Prime Ministers in a few years
\nhave reduced the nation to sackcloth and tears.
\nAll of the so-called Ministers of Health
\nspent all their time increasing their wealth
\nand the numbers who died in the pandemic,
\nfor cruel Tories are clearly endemic.
\nThe Defra Minister makes us wallow in shit
\nand that cheroot-smoker cares not a whit.
\nSatan\u2019s arse awaits to quarter these Tories,
\na mephitic home to match their lame stories
\nof Conservative financial competence,
\non a par with Tories\u2019 sexual incontinence.
\nAs for cruelty, those in the Home Office top the list.
\nOnce up Satan\u2019s arse, they won\u2019t be missed.
\nThis parcel of rogues led the country to ruin,
\nso for Satan\u2019s arse they\u2019re an obvious shoo-in. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMargaret Dornaus<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAS THE CROW FLIES
\n 
\nThey\u2019re the bikers of the bird world,
\na used car salesman (apropos of nothing)
\nposts on his blog. But my new friend says
\ncrows get a bad rap for spreading the word
\nof passing danger. His love note given
\nafter I\u2019ve spent too much time ranting about
\nthe persistent, raucous cries of a murder of crows
\noutside this morning. Don\u2019t shoot the messenger<\/i>,
\nmy friend reminds me. And because I admire how
\nhe weathers whatever comes his way\u2014the rising
\ncosts of food and shelter, his wife\u2019s chemo, a loved
\none\u2019s sudden death\u2014I retrace my barefoot steps,
\nrecall bikers of the bird world summoning me
\nto take the world in a love embrace. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKrista Drechsel<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE DIG
\n 
\nAfter we stood at the altar and said I do,
\nwe honeymooned in the heart of amethyst country.
\nHere, among boulders and buckets, we knelt
\n 
\nand took silent vows: dirt crusted fingernails,
\npicks bared like fangs in an open mouth,
\nsilt settling in between teeth. Years before,
\n 
\nI had watched a summer fling press prints,
\nhis fingertips purple-black bruises, and I believed
\nfor a long time this was love\u2014hearts carved
\n 
\nand inked black, carbon copied and hung up to dry.
\nBut I am no artist. I do not know how to carve
\nmyself into some tidy shape with clean edges,
\n 
\nhow to offer myself to you again and again
\nfor safekeeping. But I do know this: how to spend
\nmy whole life turning over the soil. How to take up
\n 
\nmy tools\u2014my trowel tongue, my hammering questions\u2014
\nand dig. How to crouch beside you, press my knees
\ninto the dirt, plumb the land for purple secrets.
\n 
\nHow to thumb the jagged gem. How to open
\nmy hands to what the earth is giving.
\n 
\n 
\nOLD GROWTH FOREST
\n 
\nIn the Kevlar canoe with you, sun merciless
\nand biceps burning, I dip my paddle
\ninto upside down pines and puddles of spilled
\nclouds. Where I once saw only mossy walls
\nof woods, I now see every towering tree,
\nand I want to know them all. Look, the red pine
\nwho\u2019s survived it all\u2014the gale, the spark, the ax.
\nLook, the jack pine, who unfurls only in the wildfire\u2019s
\nflame. Look, the cedar who will grow where nothing
\nelse dares. You listen to me chatter, paddling softly,
\nand I don\u2019t know how to tell you I am not talking about
\nthese evergreens, not really, but about you and me
\nand ours. True, where I once saw only you, a vague
\nshape looming, I now am near enough to recognize
\nevery person nested inside, and I want to know them all.
\nLook, a scar where the fire came and went. Look,
\nthe way you bend into me in the wind like a question,
\nor an answer. Look, the way you do what you can
\nto withstand everything\u2014the gale, the spark, the ax.
\nLook, the way you tell me there is nowhere
\nelse you\u2019d rather be. Look, the way I am,
\nfor the first time, believing you. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nArvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE DECLINE OF OLD DETROIT
\n 
\nHow we loved
\nthat cute little house on the hill,
\nthe one with flower boxes filled
\nwith hope and a proud front door,
\nthe color of a robin\u2019s egg,
\nbut new things become old
\neven in the best of times,
\nand weeds have a way of sprouting
\naround the edges of manicured lawns,
\npushing through cracks in the sidewalks.
\nWe saw the drought coming\u2014
\na few bare places in the packed dirt
\nat the end of a prosperous summer,
\na couple factories closing here and there,
\nsome sailing across the foreign sea.
\nThen, even the weeds turned brown,
\nand faded paint began to peel;
\nthe house settled into a pout,
\nmaking it to where you had to use your hip
\nto slam the graying front door.
\nWe might have left like the others,
\nbut the \u201947 Chevy wouldn\u2019t start no more
\nand became lawn art with blocks for wheels.
\nAir conditioner broke too,
\nand we moved our couch onto the porch,
\nwhere we sat fanning and drinking iced tea.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVern Fein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUNSUNG HERO
\n 
\nWhy would anyone dig up the graves of those atrocities when I have fasted from that horror
\nsince Uris meticulously detailed Mengele\u2019s sexual experiments on children in QB VII?
\nI threw that book against the wall and read no more about those monsters,
\nsaw no more films, not even Schindler\u2019s List,
\nthough a commercial later revealed the red coat that will always haunt me.
\n 
\nOne man, just one man, unsung hero,
\nremoved my fingers from the eyes of my mind to look again at Buchenwald.<\/i>
\n 
\nBuchenwald: where 56,000 people died.
\n      more than American soldiers killed in Viet Nam.
\nBuchenwald: all those attempts to architect the cells of Hell.
\nThose were real\u2014tiny, bare, infested\u2014not Dante\u2019s circles.
\nDeath spaces for Jews, Poles, Slavs, mentally ill, physically disabled, gypsies, Free Masons, Jehovah\u2019s Witnesses, Communists, political prisoners, gays, sexual slaves,
\nchildren.
\nOutdoors: Vernichtung durch Arbeit<\/i>\u2014\u201cworked to death,\u201d
\nand screams of pain in the \u201csinging forest\u201d when those men\u2014strappado<\/i>
\nOh, I cannot write what they did to them,
\nand Gernick Schuss<\/i>, 1,000 Russians shot in the back of the neck, and the
\nchildren.
\n 
\nOne man, just one man. What can one man do?
\nHe can tell a lie. He can tell a lie of mercy.<\/i>
\n 
\nLike Shiphrah and Puah who lied to save baby Moses.
\n 
\nThe headquarters at Buchenwald were dark on that rainy day.
\nThe Nazi command had fled. They knew the Allies were closing in.
\nThe phone rang.
\nHow many times?
\nHow many times did that phone ring?
\n      What if no one were there?
\n      But, he was.
\nA hand reached out.
\nThe hand of one German man
\nwho had the presence to tell the guttural lie of mercy.
\n 
\nCommand told him: \u201cWe will blow up the entire camp,
\nraze the rooms,
\ndestroy the 1,300 prisoners left,\u201d
\nincluding Elie Wiesel,
\nElie Wiesel, whose luminous Jewish humanity gave lie to deranged Nazi fantasies.
\n 
\nThe unsung (I sing of him now!) spoke:
\n\u201cWe\u2019ve already destroyed it! It\u2019s done!\u201d
\n 
\n(Oh, Sweet Lie!)
\n 
\n\u201cThe prisoners are blown up.
\nThe evidence is destroyed.
\nWe covered up what we did.\u201d
\n(as if the blanket of history could ever be pulled over that bed of horror).
\n 
\nThe solution was simple, more brief than my imagination.
\nNo reason to complicate mercy.
\nThe Commander answered: \u201cOkay, \u2018In ordnung.\u2019 Okay.\u201d
\n 
\nIn a few hours, the camp was liberated,
\n Wiesel saved with the others,
\n      the Nazi command tricked.
\n 
\nThe name of the one man unknown forever.
\nThe result of one act can change everything.<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJ. Andrew Figley<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA HOUSE FIRE IN THE DISTANCE
\n 
\nAlone in the darkness,
\nI see a glimmer of light.
\nIs that a candle nearby,
\nor a house fire in the distance?
\n 
\nI reach out my hand,
\nexpecting to get burned,
\nbecause not knowing
\nwould be the greater pain. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJane H. Fitzgerald<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSTRENGTH
\n 
\nYou never understood
\nthat these same hands
\nthat smooth and caress
\nand touch you lovingly
\nare as strong as life itself.
\nYou never understood
\nhow they carried
\nthe ashes of the dead
\nand signed the papers
\nfor the nearly dead
\nand helped bury the dead.
\nYou never understood
\nhow softness
\ncould be strength. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHIS DEATH FAD
\n 
\nDeath seems to be the thing to do.
\nMore and more of my friends \u2014
\nclassmates,
\nold friends from work,
\neven family \u2014
\nare doing it every day.
\n 
\nThe world goes on without them,
\njust as it survived the loss of so many.
\nFamous people,
\nordinary people.
\ninfamous people,
\neverybody so far.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s a fad I have resisted
\nbut I suppose I\u2019ll give in,
\nlike I did to bell-bottoms
\nand music on CD,
\nwhen it becomes
\nthe only game in town. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFrank Freeman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAFTER COLD MOUNTAIN 12
\n 
\nI still cannot excuse myself
\nhow when my father wept before me
\ntold me of his dying mother looking at him
\nand saying Butch you were always such a good boy
\nI had nothing to say no tears to weep
\nbut insisted on showing him how I could play
\nmy guitar the slow part of Stairway to Heaven
\nand longed for him to be proud of me<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGerald Friedman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGREEN GRASS GROWING
\n 
\nI read a human lesson in a beech book
\n(beech, the tree of my unknown Ohio boyhood,
\nits roots tangled like the roots of these words):
\nas true as ceaseless hectic crisis
\ngarbles, crazes, shatters us,
\nas sure as gas-kings carelessly given blank checks
\nbuild derricks that hang us to whiten,
\nas clear as our enjoyment of cardinals
\nhinges on red sumac fruit
\nand the worm lights the rose with crimson\u2014
\npondweed and chipmunks demand that we live with Eve,
\nplant our feet, plunge our hands
\ninto Adam\u2019s earth.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLisa Caroline Friedman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGRANDMA ROSE LOVED US & HER SCOTCH AND SODA
\n 
\nYour first full tumbler, not a hidden impish
\nthimble, must have felt like a gift \u2013
\na warm, wide, full-body smile
\nmelting away shyness and re-making
\nyou laughing, friendly, even funny.
\n 
\nAs teenagers, we could read your habits,
\nknew you\u2019d downed a private drink
\nbefore your visit as our well-trained noses
\npicked up the scent of scotch-soaked kisses
\nand our sharpshooter eyes discerned
\n 
\nthe uncertain saunter of your black pumps
\nacross the carpet. My brother proudly
\nmixed another, which you gladly
\nreceived with tremorous hands conducting
\na chorus of ice inside your glass until it melted
\n 
\nor your drink evaporated. Never sloppy
\nor falling down, you were more prone to slurring
\nmissteps like reading the third plague
\nas goats<\/i> instead of gnats<\/i> at a Passover seder \u2013
\ntriggering barely veiled laughter
\n 
\nwhich I now regret. When you smoked forbidden
\nCamels in our bathroom, did you imagine
\nyour tobacco breaths would flush away
\nwith your cigarette butts? You were once
\nin focus, had instincts my child eyes admired \u2013
\n 
\na grandma who carried stories in her pockets,
\ntaught us the swing cut, the riffle shuffle, casino and gin
\nrummy. A grandma who adorned us with nicknames \u2013
\nHandsome, Gorgeous, Beautiful and Cutie Pie \u2013
\nthat lasted past red lipstick stains on cocktail glasses. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Ganshaw<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLONGING FOR THE GREEN FAIRY
\n 
\nA clear summer sky, the sun going home to sleep tonight its magical and brilliant rays reaching out and caressing the art-deco past. Those radiant beams kidnap and transport me to that gilded age. Grasp the architecture and be absorbed into an era I\u2019ve longed to see. To walk in the grass and glimpse the dew on my spats. Dine with inventors of all that still electrify, those with light, cameras, and film to record the passing of time. To hold the memories that enrich the beating heart. I could even be their lover or more. Picnic along the river’s edge, gazing at the ripples and seeing the smile on the face of a martyr wearing a hat. Side by side we lie in wait, neither quite sure of the move to make. Simpler times they must have been with pleasures that would taste so sweet. Stroll the bustling avenues without care, watching the bikes, auto machines, and people that fill the streets. Notice the lapel of a handsome man wearing a green carnation that springs to life, quite sure this means I must give a wink. A life illuminated by the follies marquee, the theatre in such waving glory. With the giddiness and happiness that these times bring I find myself crossing over a dark entry, a Speakeasy, of this I\u2019m sure. I sit and listen to the drip, drip, drip anticipating the Green Fairy to be upon my lips. Saunter through the maze of various venues that exist, to seek out the pansy craze. Debonair by day and adventurous by night, part of coming out at a different time. Soon I\u2019m back and open my eyes to watch a spoonful of sugar cubes be liquefied. A dream or not I don\u2019t quite know, all is so real when our eyes are closed. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFrances Gaudiano<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPATCHWORK
\n 
\nSewing another square into my quilt,
\nI spread it out, over my lap
\nreading the story in each patch.
\nThis bit of flannel, once my baby blanket.
\nThat fabric, from a skirt sewn by my mother.
\nLook here, the hem of my sister\u2019s prom dress.
\nAnd pieces less faded by time \u2013
\na scrap from my son\u2019s bedspread,
\nthe tired fur of an over loved teddy,
\neven the satin ribbons won by a long dead dog.
\nMemories I\u2019d like to hold onto forever,
\nbut they slide through my fingers,
\nShiny bits slipping, even as I grasp tightly.
\nIn the end,
\nI have these bright colours to wrap around myself
\nand remind me of my life.
\n 
\n 
\nI AM NOT A PINNIPED
\n 
\nMy husband fell in love with a seal,
\n down in the bay where he swims
\n every morning. They met, trysting in full sight
\n of the wild swimmers.
\n 
\nBe careful. Seals bite.
\nBut he said her eyes were
\n pools of magic, telling him stories of the sea.
\n 
\nShe was lonesome and followed him
\n all the way to the second buoy,
\n and back again.
\n 
\nI would follow you too,
\nI want to say.
\nBut I have no flippers, no tail.
\nI might drag you under. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary R. Gowers<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRED FLAG
\n 
\nI was buck naked on the leatherette couch
\nwhile super-hot-she straddled me and gave me a right good bang.
\nAfter the fireworks went off, she started with the waterworks.
\n 
\nWhat\u2019s the matter? I asked.
\n-I\u2019m gay.
\nThat didn\u2019t seem gay to me.
\n-I\u2019M GAY!
\nMaybe you\u2019re bi-sexual.
\n-There\u2019s no such thing!
\nI know a bunch of bisexuals who might disagree.
\n 
\nAnd then I reached out to try to give her a hug, \u2018cause that\u2019s what
\nyou do when you\u2019ve made a lesbian cry.
\nBut she shrugged me off and gave me a glare.
\n 
\n-You don\u2019t OWN me. She said, slow-like to get the point across.
\nYeah, I know.
\n-You just don\u2019t understand.
\nYou\u2019re right, I don\u2019t.
\n-Wanna get high?
\nAbsolutely. I said.
\n 
\nSo we smoked some pretty strong stuff using a one-hitter,
\nexcept I hit it several times and I\u2019m a light-weight to begin with.
\nWeed always makes me do two things – take a shit and go to sleep.
\nEvery time. Every single time. And I\u2019m fine with that.
\nSo after another go at the naked Olympics on the leatherette couch
\nI really needed to shit.
\nAfter I clogged up the john real good and came out smelling like a rose,
\nshe told me I had to go \u2018cause it was getting real late. And it was.
\n 
\nOkay. I said.
\n-Don\u2019t get mad, because you can\u2019t stay.
\nI\u2019m not mad. I said Okay.
\n-Fine. As long as you\u2019re not mad.
\nOkay.
\n-Okay.
\n 
\nAnd I left stoned out of my fucking mind.
\nI was probably going about 20 mph but it felt like I was lead car in
\nthe Indianapolis 500.
\nThe 30 minute drive took nearly two hours and once I dozed off at a
\nred light.
\n 
\nAfter I got home,
\nat long last,
\nand was laying splayed out on my back
\nI reviewed: she\u2019s gorgeous, more than two decades younger,
\nhas very strong weed tolerance, emotionally unstable with a
\nsexual identity crisis.
\nBut the only Red Flag I picked up on was she made me drive high. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGARDENER AND INVALID WIFE
\n 
\nHasn’t rained in weeks,
\nso he’s the rain,
\nout on his parched lawn
\nwaving the hose around,
\ntrying to trick some roots
\ninto thinking nothing’s
\nreally changed.
\n 
\nLook at me,
\nis what he’s really saying,
\nand to the woman in the window
\nnot the sickly plants.
\nI’m out here making a difference.
\nYou’re inside complaining about the heat.
\n 
\nBut the tomatoes don’t just complain,
\nthey grow half-size, redden before time,
\nshrivel in lieu of ripening.
\nHe won’t let her see those.
\nHe’ll buy some from the store if he has to,
\npass them off as his.
\n 
\nShe has to know that
\nhe can conquer even the worst
\nthat weather throws at him.
\nSo it’s the heat of August.
\nThere’s not a cloud in the sky.
\nDespite his efforts, everything will die anyway.
\n 
\nBut maybe, just maybe,
\nhis hold on her will live.
\n 
\n 
\nJOANNIE SAYS
\n 
\nI figure I am beautiful because of my
\nbeautiful farm. This is the logic that
\nmends my fences, that feeds hay to
\nthe horses. I am aware of femininity like
\nI am aware of the weather. Even the
\nworst of it can do some good. The meaning
\nof my life is clear. It’s cows in a field,
\ntheir heads bowed and blessing the taste
\nof the grass. It’s the weather-vane spinning
\nwith good winds. It’s a basket of eggs,
\nwhite with brown speckles. Ambition
\nmirrors my duty and I appreciate that.
\nIt allows me to stay in this place
\nto put my weary feet up on the porch
\nat the end of the day, and defy
\nthe waning sun to not warm me.
\nI am tired and I ache all over.
\nI watch the day retreat from my
\nbeautiful land. You\u2019ll never know
\nhow beautiful that makes me. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nREEL
\n 
\nOn the steps of that African farmhouse
\nintroduced by Jennylee, you stared, I stuttered.
\nWe laughed at everything.
\nAround the dinner table, we ate Nini\u2019s fish pie.
\n 
\nAnd the topless picnic by the river,
\nthe portable record player.
\nBob Dylan. Patti Smith. Hot, stoned
\nand shy. We sang.
\n 
\nBaboons vie for dominance in the near canyon,
\nferal shrieking punctuates our reverie.<\/i>
\n 
\nAnd that fisherman, we watched till sunset.
\nHe reeled and reeled and reeled.
\nWe never saw what he pulled
\nfrom the sea. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nRESTAVEKS
\n 
\nIllegals, both of us; married last year,
\nnow she cleans houses, I cut grass, sweep decks,
\nfor superrich who see us as mere specks
\nwhile their big spaceship exit they prepare.
\nEarth will be fishless, treeless, plastic, bare.
\nThey\u2019ve offered us both jobs as restaveks,
\nbut I said No, they just want us for sex.
\nShe said Then suck them off, why should you care?
\nI said, We\u2019ll stay. She said, I said I\u2019d go.
\nI said, You\u2019d leave me? She said, Stay, be dead.
\nI said, That makes you nothing but a whore.
\nShe said, I fucked him for your job, you know;
\nI go to space, I\u2019ll live, have food, have bed,
\nand, if I\u2019m good, oh maybe so much more\u2026
\n 
\n 
\nYOU, YES YOU
\n 
\nYou, yes you, contain multitudes, conflicted mobs –
\nthe adroit who holds two jobs,
\nthe maladroit who fails and sobs,
\nthe shortcut thug, dacoit, who simply robs –
\nyou\u2019ve urges to protect and to exploit:
\nbe just! (but help yourself when you\u2019ve the chance
\nand no one\u2019s there to look at you askance.)
\nPriests educate, instruct and rape their flock
\nas farmers care for, milk and eat their herd
\nand statesmen love the country they extort. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDave Jarecki<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBROTHER GHOST
\n 
\nFirst day at every new school
\nI gave a fake name
\nwhen other kids asked\u2014Ox, Gray,
\nBranch\u2014because my parents
\nnamed me after my brother who died. New friends
\nalways wanted to know how. Sometimes
\nthe river swept him up
\nin his baptismal gown. Sores and lumps
\nbefore the vaccine. My mother
\nfound him twisted in his sheets; father
\nleft him by the forklift
\nand swore he came right back.
\nI can\u2019t count how often
\nI killed my brother, brought him to life
\nto kill again in the fog of a bus stop pack
\npining for first impressions.
\nVanished in the flood; snatched
\ninto a van, front tire of his bike spinning.
\nWhen he was old enough to drive
\nhe lost the wheel over a frosted bridge.
\nWhat bridge? In the place of dairy cows
\nthere\u2019s a cross with our name. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDaniel Kemper<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA CRACK FOR THE MIRACULOUS
\n 
\nOh do not grumble no room at the inn.<\/i>
\nDon’t turn these holy days into a blur
\nof frosted panes, nor carols to the din
\nof drunks and scolded kids; don’t be too sure
\nthat every hope succumbs to cheap chagrin.
\nNo, do not close your door; leave just a crack
\nfor the miraculous to enter in.
\nIt has before and it can still come back.
\nO let your lips become the sliver of
\nan open smile. Remember when a pair
\nof tiny people fell in giant love
\nbefore they fell apart? Take in the air!
\nAnd leave a crack for the miraculous,
\nfor you and I returning back to us.
\n 
\n 
\nLET THE WINTER WINDS ASSIST ME
\n 
\nI’ll change the subject of the conversation
\ninside my mind; I will forget the flowers
\nand trees that I once learned, the sweet sensation
\nof all your words on mine, and all the hours
\nwe spent on phlox, and styrax, celandines
\nand times that time has shown were lost on me.
\nYou keep him always on your mind. which means
\nthat you belong to him. What\u2019s left for me?
\nAnd you’ll refuse to see it all as tragic
\nas you and I forget, forget, forget.
\nOh Lord, please let the Redbreast work its magic;
\nlet me un-dream, let me forget and let
\nthe falling leaves and winter winds assist me
\nwhere no birds sing, as if you never kissed me.
\n 
\n 
\nDISTANT GLIMMERS
\n 
\nWe call the distant glimmers stars; perhaps
\nthey spell our fate. The Moving Finger writes?
\nIt does not write; The Moving Finger snaps
\nand then our moment’s gone. The starry nights
\nspin on. Perhaps they’re moments frozen on
\nan arc that I can neither speed nor slow.
\nThe pointed moments drag. How long til dawn?
\nHow did it come to this? How can I know?
\nHow inconceivable the distance of
\nthe turning zodiac, the depth of blue,
\nand yet they pull on me all night, my love,
\nand so my fevered mind is turning too.
\nThe rack of night is tightened star by star
\nby star. They aren’t so far away. You are.
\n 
\n 
\nBILTMORE GARDENS: STUMBLING THROUGH PARADISE
\n 
\nMy self-effacing Eve and I will weave
\nalong in garden walks, but when I call
\nher beautiful, she’ll turn away. We loll
\nthrough Paradise. And here the gardens leave
\nus treasure too unguarded to believe:
\n“Remember this? And this?” I fidget, stall,
\nand sigh. She sees me struggle to recall,
\nand giggling, hides her face behind her sleeve.
\n 
\nI’m overwhelmed with names of flowers\u2014names
\nof feelings, too. The orchid in her hand
\nI’ve never known before. I shake my head.
\n 
\nI just don’t have the words…
\nif she began to name the grains of sand,
\nI’d be enamored of the sand, instead.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE SKY ABLOOM
\n 
\nYou had no need of me; I was just one
\namong a hundred-thousand little boys
\nwho wrote their poems thinking they were done,
\nwho puffed and preened, and made a little noise.
\nYou picked the lint off of my poem’s chest
\nand fixed my poem’s collar; soon we knew
\nas you were taming it, you tamed the rest
\nof me — as I was slowly taming you.
\nWe laugh. Am I too old to know the way
\nto love my rose? A half a century gone,
\nwe both know love. How purely now we lay
\neach other down… then talk until the dawn.
\nWe share what stars are left and rightly see
\nthe sky abloom with flowers, far and free. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Kinerk<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHAT I LIKE ABOUT JESUS
\n 
\nThis is the machine that makes rubber bands.
\nAnd this is the one that makes bullets.
\nI have to imagine that someone at some point
\ninvented the machine for making rubber bands.
\nDitto the machine for bullets. Someone invented that.
\nAnd someone else refined the rubber-band machine.
\nSomeone did the same for bullets. And right on
\ndown the line. Different someones did
\nthe paperwork to patent the machines and
\nbought the property to house them and built the
\nnecessary factories and engaged suppliers and
\nhired workers and saw to their training and sent
\na sales force out, probably across the whole country,
\nto collect orders for, on the one hand, rubber bands,
\nand on the other, bullets.
\n 
\nThat is to say for rubber bands that hold our
\ntattered paperbacks together, or our collections
\nof colored pencils, or, like the post office,
\nbuys millions of them to wrap around our mail.
\nWhile, of course, bullets rip through people\u2019s chests
\nright around the nipple or blow apart their heads
\nor mow down unsuspecting children in
\nConnecticut or Colorado or wherever.
\n 
\nWhich reminds me that when Jesus comes again,
\nas certain groups of people are positive he will,
\nhe is going to say to the manufacturers of rubber bands,
\n\u201cPlease take a seat of honor here at my right hand,\u201d
\nand to the manufacturers of bullets and the inventors of
\nbullet machines and their salesmen and suppliers and workers
\nhe is going to say, \u201cDepart from me, you cursed
\nof my father, into the everlasting fire prepared
\nfor you from all eternity.\u201d
\n 
\nThat\u2019s what I like about Jesus.
\nHe doesn\u2019t fuck around. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard LeDue<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA GARBAGE BAG AFTERLIFE
\n 
\nApparitions shaped like old Christmas cards,
\ntormenting a drawer, cluttered as your soul,
\nuntil you turn a garbage bag
\ninto an afterlife more reminiscent
\nof primordial darkness than that light
\nwe’re always told to go towards.
\n 
\nMaybe the naked trees will mourn more
\nfor them, while you read names
\nyou haven’t thought about in years,
\nand even if a few of them have died,
\nthose cards give their ghosts enough life
\nto remind you you’re out of envelopes.
\n 
\n 
\nA GRANT STARVED POET EATING A CAN OF EXPIRED CORN
\n 
\nI have read almost every book
\nby Henry Chinaski,
\nand know I could teach a class
\nall about his work:
\nstanding in front of those scholarly eyes,
\ndissecting his words
\nwith high school scalpel precision,
\nholding up his intestines
\njust to explain how his shit worked,
\nbut I believe in his ghost too much,
\nand I’m scared he’d hit the devil over the head
\nwith a bar-stool to come back and haunt me,
\nwhich proves I’m a superstitious coward,
\nwho at least knows it. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAlex LeGrys<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCOEXISTENCE
\n 
\nHe wore Lennon shades inside
\nand was always in black;
\nhis combat boots shined and his
\nbutton-down ironed and he\u2019d sit
\ncross-legged on waxed white
\ntile, sipping Oolong from
\na mint green teacup
\n 
\nhis hair was hazel– long enough
\nto dance with the wind chimes
\non the concrete balcony but
\nshort enough to hover
\nabove his shoulders
\n 
\nhe smoked Lucky Strikes and
\nthrew them at me as I walked through
\nthe entryway so I\u2019d crawl, sniffing
\nthem out like a Blue Tick
\n 
\nhe\u2019d play with rosaries and
\nsketch pentagrams; he
\nhad me wear
\nBuddha round my neck as
\na reminder that Siddhartha wouldn\u2019t
\naccompany
\nthe material world
\n 
\nhe asked me once why I came
\nto call on him so often
\nand if I wouldn\u2019t mind
\nleaving for good
\n 
\nas I grabbed my final
\nloose cigarette, I turned around
\nand told him: I don\u2019t
\ngive myself stigmata because
\nI think I\u2019m Christ,
\nit\u2019s because I ought to
\nbe crucified. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Levin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGONE GIRL
\n(Alexandria, 150 B.C.<\/i>)
\n 
\nBy this I bind,
\nthis leaden square sealed up
\nwith sacred nails,
\nand sworn, and buried
\nin dark soil
\nby Hades, Hecate
\nand every under-god:
\n 
\nmay<\/i> peaches, pears,
\nblue clusters of round grapes
\nripe tamarinds
\nand all the luscious gleanings
\nof this fertile earth
\nfall, ashes at your feet
\nand turn your mouth to dust
\n 
\nthat all your hopes
\nwill be reversed, desire
\ngo limp as twine
\nand cramps assail
\nyour faithless bowels
\nas you twist sleepless
\nin your foreign bed.<\/i>
\n 
\nI pace our corridor
\nbare-legged each night,
\nunable to forget
\nyour touch, your husky laugh,
\nyour delicate curved lips.
\nThe pomegranate tree we planted
\nhas turned black
\nas my despair.
\n 
\n 
\nBIRD GRIEF
\n(Finding a gannet washed up at Eel Pond<\/i>)
\n 
\nA sudden swan-size lump —
\n 
\nbright white and yellow
\nstreaked by sand, wings snarled,
\ntheir sodden coal-black tips
\ncrusted with silt. Gray eye
\nthat scanned pelagic waves,
\neaten by ants.
\n 
\nThe voyager
\nwho skimmed iced cliffs
\nand mangrove swamps
\nsprawls awkwardly;
\nas awkwardly as I extend —
\nretract — a booted toe:
\nrestrained by vague
\nprimordial respect
\n 
\nor other visions
\nfallen from the skies
\nor knowledge
\nliving beauty\u2019s
\nalways nullified,
\nI circle, formal
\nas Victorian mourners
\nin front-parlor guise
\n 
\nand take my leave
\ncompanioned
\nby an uninvited host
\nof shades
\n 
\nwhile gorgeous ruined plumage
\non a misty beach
\nbegins to ruffle gently
\nas the tide comes in
\n 
\n 
\nBLACK ICE
\n(Mauthausen, 1944)
\n 
\nBlack ice
\n               black sky
\nblack earth
\n               beneath
\nbare feet
\n               in split
\npine clogs
\n               that tramp
\nblack snow
\n               each dawn
\nto pull
\n               and haul
\nbeneath
\n               a cruel
\nwhite eye:
\n               our dream
\nto see
\n               a strip
\nof blue
\n               once more
\nbefore
\n               we die. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTamara Madison<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE END OF THE WORLD
\n 
\nMy great-grandmother fetched water from a well
\nwhile the crone down the road hollered
\nThe world is ending!<\/i>
\n 
\nMy grandmother lay the cards out and told her believers
\nthey would get their wish; I think she kept the news
\nof world’s end to herself.
\n 
\nMy mother jitterbugged with sailors on their way
\nto war while the curmudgeon spoke a warning
\nfrom his porch next door.
\n 
\nI watch spring unfold in my garden in a wash of new green
\nand my grandchildren smile from my laptop screen;
\nI trust the world will carry on its endless ending. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJason Melvin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCOLLEGE VISIT
\n 
\ntheir mascot is a teal rooster
\nwe urge our daughter
\nto get a photo
\nwith the giant teal bird
\nshe refuses
\nsays she doesn\u2019t want
\nDad (me)
\nposting the pic
\non Facebook
\nwith the caption
\nLook at my daughter
\nand her giant teal cock<\/i>
\n 
\nthey grow up fast
\n 
\nshe decided to go there
\nfor school
\nSorry, honey<\/i>
\nfour years of cock jokes
\nupcoming<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOUT FOR THE COUNT
\n 
\nO<\/b>n Cooper’s Hill in Gloucestershire, each year,
\nU<\/b>nbalanced individuals converge
\nT<\/b>o chase a giant cheese downhill. Their sheer
\nF<\/b>ell swoop obeys the death-defying urge
\nO<\/b>f true Dutch courage proffered by a pub’s
\nR<\/b>efreshments in the hours before the race …
\nT<\/b>his year, BC’s Delaney Irving stubs
\nH<\/b>er toe while trailing back in second place,
\nE<\/b>scapes from contact with the ground, takes flight,
\nC<\/b>lears several metres, lands again and rolls
\nO<\/b>n down to take the lead and win\u2014all quite
\nU<\/b>nconsciously … This kamikaze soul’s
\nN<\/b>erve-jangling plunge shows how you can amount
\nT<\/b>o something when you’re knocked out for the count! <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn C. Morrison<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSORRY I WALKED OUT ON YOU THE OTHER DAY
\n 
\nMy uncle remained loyal
\nin my convalescence. He could never
\nrecall my name to say twice the same.
\nOnly left the hospital for a pimento-cheese
\nsandwich or to vacuum the whole
\nof where we\u2019d been. I\u2019d given my elderly
\nneighbor a sack of loose holiday ribbon
\n 
\nand her powerful, forlorn hug wrenched
\nmy spine. I curled like a deer
\non a map of the world woven
\nof wild grass from the Central
\nValley before the god-awful haze,
\nbefore the giant sloths lumbered
\nextinct. With my eyes pinched tight
\n 
\nin that high pitch of pain, I saw how
\nyou and I in all our flirtation
\nnever painted each other\u2019s nails or did
\nso long ago even the extinct sloths
\nhave forgotten. I hypnotized
\nmyself with a green feather
\n 
\nto remember. Fasted and fasted
\nto remember. I ate a bruised banana
\nas brain food and still was as blank
\nas the sandstone cliff, legend has,
\nlovers fell from holding hands
\nso they could fall as stars forever. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMF<\/i> AND FF<\/i>
\n 
\nWhen you say motherfucker<\/i>, and you’re not
\na teenager, a hoodlum, or a cop,
\nwhat does it say about your mother? What
\ndoes it say about you? I don’t say stop,
\n 
\nbut I say fatherfucker<\/i> now instead
\nbecause I am part feminist, you see.
\nPlus, fully grown. Besides, my dad’s long dead.
\nI would like to invite you to join me
\n 
\nand not be such a parrot, ape, or sucker
\nwho disses mothers. Not that it’s a crime,
\nbut won’t you try to manage fatherfucker<\/i>,
\nfor the sake of fairness, maybe, half the time? <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBob Nimmo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLESSENING
\n 
\nI knew I shouldn\u2019t peep behind that curtain
\nbut I was full of youthful lust
\nand the thrill that prohibition gives
\nI\u2019d seen through chinks before
\nbut those gleaming mounds of flesh
\ncracked with black were worth the curse
\nI got when my transgression was discovered;
\nfor days I walked round reddened
\nand my terrier Jason seemed to know
\nbut the ghostly white buttresses
\nhaunted and the boughs of forest glades
\nhaunted more;
\nso I slunk back and braved the wrath again
\nbut this time those white hillocks beckoned
\ncalled me in and sanctioned my transgression:
\n\u2019twas the day that I first learned
\nshame shared is shameless. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Nisbet<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE SMOKERS\u2019 ROOM
\n 
\nThe hospital\u2019s grudging smokers\u2019 room,
\ndead butts crumpled on tin coasters.
\nJust the two people there. He knew her,
\nbought his veg at her market stall.
\n 
\nHer mother\u2019s stroke, his father\u2019s blood disease
\n(but the awfulness for each was family,
\nrecrimination, homes\u2019 sworn angers).
\n 
\nThey swapped tired jokes, civilities,
\nthen suddenly unburdened, each to each,
\nlaid misery bare, until, calmed,
\ncomforted, they left for their visits.
\n 
\nLater they only met at her veggie stall.
\nThey were polite, talked market currency,
\nknew shades of spirit\u2019s nakedness, the pit. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine Owen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n\u201cA LIST OF SMALL FLAMES\u201d [J H Prynne]
\n 
\nThe you that is not here, indubitably.
\n 
\nOranges within the plastic dome of the cooler.
\n 
\nHis cock, blooming in my fist, fierce and tender, against my lips, in memory.
\n 
\nMorning over the river, light that does, or won\u2019t, portend.
\n 
\nThat afternoon you stood in the woods, looked up and, just then, an owl and a hawk were conversant, in threatened alders.
\n 
\nA few ghosts. Random? No, particular.
\n 
\nWhen you held me from behind in the snow on a sled, then on the cold Okanagan lake
\nin deepest July, where we rode a Seadoo and laughed like the wake, so easily.
\n 
\nThe dictionary your father bought you one lost Christmas; that he knew you that well.
\n 
\nTeal, in all hues.
\n 
\nPulling her out by the armpits, jellied, into fluorescence and ineluctable relief.
\n 
\nHe didn\u2019t flinch when you wept, did he, well that was something too. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKenneth Pobo<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSOME BLOCKY SOPHOMORE THROWS A BASKETBALL
\nRIGHT AT DULCET\u2019S HEAD
\n 
\nCoach sees Danny throw it
\nright at me\u2014when I fall,
\nCoach yells get up. I want to cry
\nbut know they\u2019ll turn me
\ninto a bigger joke
\nthan they think I am. Why does
\n 
\nEisenhower High School make me
\nplay basketball? Run this way,
\nthen that, throw a ball up.
\nI\u2019d rather be on the couch
\nwatching One Life To Live<\/i>,
\nViki fading into her split
\npersonality, Niki Smith. I feel
\n 
\npretty split,
\nlike I\u2019m several people,
\nnone of whom can dodge anything.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDiana Rosen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLOVE HAIKU
\n 
\nElegant jade cup
\nholds liquid gold for her lips.
\nShe\u2019s suddenly shy.
\n 
\nPoor moon, sparkling bright;
\nno match for the glint of such
\nmischief in her eyes.
\n 
\nHis sideways glance, the
\nopen hand. Knowing he is
\nhers, feels triumphant. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEd Ruzicka<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nROSCOE
\n 
\nOne of the janitors has a chair
\nin a broom closet, gin stashed under
\ncleaning products, the Racing Form,
\nchewed on stogies \u2013 would set alarms
\nif lit – Playboys bent & stuffed between
\nbrick wall and water pipes. Curses
\noften as the sea makes salt. All the
\nmaids know he\u2019s a soft touch when
\ntheir month runs out of check. Has
\ntwo daughters in the Youth Orchestra.
\nGlares if you ask him to mop up
\nbut hustles quick to help anyone
\nwith a cane. Bends to the children.
\nEven the devil doesn\u2019t know his heart. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMykyta Ryzhykh<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUNTITLED
\n 
\nmom sews a vagina for her daughter like a red rag for tears
\nmom wants soldiers to give flowers to her daughters
\n 
\nthe cemetery is silent about flowers
\n 
\ndaughter collects khaki and throws it into the toilet
\ndaughter screams that she does not need such flowers
\n 
\ngraves are silent about the dead<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Sarai<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN THE STARS SPEAK
\nASTRONOMOLOGY AND LOSS
\n 
\nYou would think they\u2019d be
\nthrilled but: Nope.
\nThey were terrified when
\nassigned to pour you
\nthe second-most
\nprecious gift of life
\n(water) and the most
\nprecious gift (constancy?)
\n      (maybe?). <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNOT MINE
\n 
\nThe two am call
\nit\u2019s our mother<\/i>
\nclothes flung in a back pack
\ntwo hundred caffeinated miles to Queens
\n 
\nMeet my sister at St. Luke\u2019s
\nthe air suffused with resentment like a swarm of wasps
\nthe classic story: I left, she stayed in the one horse,
\nno bookstore town, living with my surly mother, tending
\nto her every need like the saint she pretends to be
\nSaint Clare of Infinite Compassion
\nbasking in the praise of the neighbors, the pastor, the mail carrier
\na martyr synthetic as saccharin, burning in nonexistent flames
\n 
\nSitting with my mother all night
\non this sad excuse for a chair, while a tantara of nurses
\nthump in and out like pachyderms to take blood pressure,
\ntest oxygen, replace beeping bags, chattering
\nin some high-pitched language that hurts my ears
\ndrifting into dreams of a mother who favored her first born
\nwho felt abandoned by the one who left
\nwho is planning to unwind her will
\n 
\nAll nonsense of course
\ntomorrow I will head home,
\nslip back into a comforting routine, yet
\nstill I see my sister\u2019s hollow eyes, her longing
\nfor reprieve, still I see my mother reach for her hand, not mine<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Sellitti<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA SILHOUETTE AT GREAT KILLS BEACH
\n 
\nFrom up among the beach grass
\nand the sea rocket, past the furthest
\nreach of stranded clams and condom rings,
\nI watched them walking
\nin the wet sand by the water;
\nthe three of them – the two
\nbikinied girls and
\nthe naked man in silhouette against
\nthe sinking sun, approaching them.
\nThey wore barely more than he did,
\nbut as far as I could tell
\nwhatever thoughts of them
\nhe had were only those
\na man could safely wear in public
\nat a beach.
\nA paper cutout of a man, an inverted
\ntrapezoid in black. They liked
\nwhat little they could see of him,
\ninflating everything they had
\nas they advanced, and smiling.
\nA voyeur just by happenstance,
\nI couldn\u2019t turn away to save my soul
\nfrom the epiphany about to happen.
\nIt only took a moment more
\nfor them to see the detail in
\nhis shadowed side, and when they did
\nthey screamed,
\nthen turned as one
\nand ran from his nakedness
\nand his indifference. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary Standin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMEMORY
\n 
\nSometimes I wish
\nI had a fireplace
\nso when I get cold
\nI can go sit by it
\nuntil I get hot
\nand then do
\nsomething else.
\nYou don\u2019t forget
\nwhen you have a
\nfireplace.
\nAnd forget. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHEAT
\n 
\nYour breath bows to fire
\nin my eyes, withers
\nas my hand slides
\nacross your cheek.
\n 
\nMy essence a superpower
\nover you, your heart
\na rag of lace, clinging
\nto the rust of forever.
\n 
\nNot me, Baby, I\u2019m going
\nto tempt you, trample you,
\ntear you apart then tear
\nout of here like nuclear noise. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSherri Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI WANT A NEW RUNNING SKIRT
\n 
\nI want a new running skirt
\nshort and tight in a bright purple
\nprint I want to wear
\nthat skirt with a tank that bares
\nmy shoulders leaves my arms free
\nto swing in synch with my flying feet
\n 
\nI want to feel the heat of the sun
\nthe wet of sweat rolling down
\nmy back I want to run
\nin that skirt through Delmarva past
\nNorth Carolina beyond Savannah
\nand Miami Beach I want that skirt
\nto get me away from long pants
\nfleece vests wooly hats and gloves
\n 
\nIn that skirt I will leave the dread
\nof swabs and tests and toxins in the air
\nthe terror of touching a hand
\nwhen I hand groceries to someone
\nwho has never before asked for food
\n 
\nI want that skirt to carry me past
\nthe agony of bodies in parking lots
\nwaiting for a gurney or a hospital bed
\nbeyond the horror of guns and clubs
\nblood stains on marble steps
\n 
\nI need this skirt to assuage
\nthe panic that whispers in the night
\nnothing will ever be the way it was<\/i>
\nI need something to allay
\nthe fear of never seeing my kids again <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNat Zhichkin<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTAKEN BACK TO THE LAND
\n 
\nIsabel, Isabel
\na death in your family,
\nno longer in metropolitan Montreal
\nback to your uncle\u2019s soiled farmland,
\nthe grey outskirts of Quebec,
\nIsabel, Isabel, what worries you so?
\nIs it the dreary weather and tedious chores?
\nThe musty smell and creaky floorboards
\nof your uncle\u2019s house? Your curious family\u2019s
\nhistory unknown, only your uncle\u2019s
\nbothersome friendliness remaining. Isabel,
\nyou inspect yourself in the mirror before bed,
\nfrom the shape of your thighs to your
\npointed cupid\u2019s bow, you ponder so deeply
\nuntil there\u2019s nothing left but all your mucked
\nup anxieties, you dredge up what nobody else
\nthought was there. Land, home, body, routine,
\nyour distorted thoughts and the peculiar
\nkindness of many men, I want to protect you from it all.
\nIsabel, I\u2019ll only kiss you in the dark as not to be blinded by
\nyour elfin, boyish beauty no local girl has. You\u2019ll come to me
\non your bike tonight, little sleepless Isabel, in spite of the heavy storm
\nthough you\u2019ll be unable to make up your cluttered mind,
\nI\u2019ll take you dearest Isabel, lay you down on some hay
\nin the same barn where others wanted to take you
\nunjustly. Trembling, you\u2019ll cling to me, your eyes wide,
\nbut you won\u2019t see me, my face replaced by
\nthe shadow of another much more familiar
\nthan I ever could be. Isabel, you haunted waif,
\nIsabel, how will I save you then?
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n  <\/a>
\n 
\nPoets and Artists Bios<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nKelli Allen<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. Allen is the co-Founding Editor of Book of Matches<\/i> literary journal. Allen\u2019s latest book is Leaving the Skin on the Bear,<\/i> C&R Press, 2022. She currently teaches writing and literature in North Carolina. kelli-allen.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nC. J. Anderson-Wu<\/a><\/strong> is a Taiwanese writer whose writing revolves around historical injustice and human rights violation. Her works have been shortlisted by a number of contests, and won the awards from Stranded Lit, Invisible City, and the best story from Story Sanctum. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Kay Anderson<\/a><\/strong> resides at the headwaters of Sutherlin Creek in the Umpqua River Basin in southwestern Oregon. Anderson worked in Hawaii as an educator. There, she interviewed Virginia Brautigan Aste. The resulting memoir, Please Plant This Book Coast To Coast,<\/i> and Anderson\u2019s first book of poems, Mezzanine,<\/i> are available from Finishing Line Press. www.pw.org\/directory\/writers\/susan_kay_anderson<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Beveridge<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) makes noise <(xterminal.bandcamp.com)<\/a> and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent\/upcoming appearances in Wishbone Words, SurVision, and Down in the Dirt, among others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAce Boggess<\/a><\/strong> is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review<\/i>, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHannah Bub<\/a><\/strong> writes both fiction and poetry. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the following: Greene Street Review, Wingless Dreamer anthologies (Praised by December and The Petal Pages), October Hill Magazine, and San Antonio Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEmily Buckner<\/a><\/strong> is a writer and teacher in Wisconsin. Her work has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Creative Wisconsin Magazine,<\/i> and Every Day Fiction<\/i>. When she is not writing, Emily enjoys making music, reading, taking walks, and petting her cat, Ivan. Find her on Twitter @ebucknerwrites<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Carleton<\/a><\/strong> writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, The Wild Word, Valparaiso,<\/i> and New Ohio Review.<\/i> Sarah\u2019s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave<\/i>, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJared Carter<\/a><\/strong>‘s most recent book, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. He lives in Indiana.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nYuan Changming<\/a><\/strong> edits Poetry Pacific<\/i> with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include 12 Pushcart nominations, 15 chapbooks (most recently Sinosaure<\/i>) and appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry<\/i> (2008-17), and 2019 other literary outlets worldwide. A poetry judge at Canada’s 2021 National Magazine Awards, Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJackie Chou<\/a><\/strong> writes free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords,<\/i> and Fevers of the Mind Press<\/i>. She is also a Jeopardy fan. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMarisa Cimbal<\/a><\/strong> lives in New Jersey with her husband and dog, Elsa, and is the mother of twin daughters. She works in New York City in healthcare communications and is now fulfilling her dream of being a poet and a writer of nonfiction. Most recently, her work has appeared in Humans of the World. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDon Colburn<\/a><\/strong> came to poetry late, in the midst of a newspaper career. A longtime reporter for The Washington Post<\/i> and The Oregonian<\/i>, he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in feature writing. He has published five poetry collections, including four chapbooks. His latest \u2014 Mortality, With Pronoun Shifts<\/i> \u2014 won the Cathy Smith Bowers chapbook award. His full-length book, As If Gravity Were a Theory<\/i>, won the Cider Press Review Book Award.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Cossette<\/a><\/strong> lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Author of Peggy Sue Messed Up<\/i>, she is a recipient of the University of Connecticut\u2019s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, The Rat’s Ass Review, The New York Quarterly, ONE ART, As it Ought to Be, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Amethyst Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Loch Raven Review<\/i>, and in the anthologies Fast Fallen Women<\/i> (Woodhall Press) and Tuesdays at Curley\u2019s<\/i> (Yuganta Press). <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong> has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book of poetry is Random Saints<\/i><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nMC<\/a><\/strong> is a North Carolina native. She graduated with an MFA in Fiction from Brigham Young University in 2020 and is currently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing\/Poetry at Ohio University. Her work has been published in Inscape<\/I> journal and Jersey Devil Press<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPrize-winning poet* Ken Cumberlidge<\/a><\/strong> cut his performance teeth on the Liverpool pub poetry scene of the 1970s, and has never recovered. He’s now based in Norwich, but can be lured out of cover by the promise of good company and an open mic slot. If you’ve been to an open-mic on Zoom in the last year or so, there’s a sporting chance you’ve encountered him. More of Ken’s work can be found via his Linktree at https:\/\/linktr.ee\/kencumberlidge<\/a>
\n (* the prize was a chocolate cake. He guessed its weight.) <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCover Artist Andrea Damic<\/a><\/strong>, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, now resides in Sydney, Australia. She\u2019s an amateur photographer and author of poetry and prose. Being a non-native English speaker makes every publication worthwhile the struggle. When she lacks words, she uses visual arts to speak for her. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website: damicandrea.wordpress.com<\/a><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nTony Dawson<\/a><\/strong> has lived in Seville for many years. Poems published in Critical Survey, and by Shoestring Press (Nottingham); London Grip, The Five-Two, The Syndic Literary Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt Press, Poetry and Covid, Home Planet News, Pure Slush, North of Oxford, Lighten Up Online and Loch Raven Review. A collection, Afterthoughts<\/i> ISBN: 978-81-19228-34-8 was published by Cyberwit.net in 2023 https:\/\/londongrip.co.uk\/2023\/06\/london-grip-poetry-review-tony-dawson\/<\/a><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nMargaret Dornaus<\/a><\/strong> holds an MFA in the translation of poetry from the University of Arkansas. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work appears in numerous journals and anthologies, including I-70 Review, Minyan Magazine, One Art, Red Earth Review and Sheila-Na-Gig. Her first book, Prayer for the Dead: Collected Haibun & Tanka Prose (Singing Moon Press, 2016), received a 2017 Haiku Society of America Book Award.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKrista Drechsel<\/a><\/strong> is a poet and writer based in Minneapolis. She is currently working on her first collection of poems.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n Arvilla Fee<\/a><\/strong> teaches English for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, short stories, and photography in numerous presses, and her poetry book, The Human Side, is available on Amazon. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nVern Fein<\/a><\/strong>‘s first poetry book–I WAS YOUNG AND THOUGHT IT WOULD CHANGE–came out earlier last year, the same year he became an octogenarian. You may find it on Amazon or Cyberwit. He has published over 250 poems\/prose pieces on over 100 different sites. He is a member of two excellent poetry groups which give him great input, notably the Rat’s Ass Review site. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n J. Andrew Figley<\/a><\/strong> is a writer and poet from Willard, Ohio. A government bureaucrat by trade, he enjoys a quiet life with his wife, three cats, and dog. His work has been published on 50 Word Stories.<\/i><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nJane H. Fitzgerald<\/a><\/strong> is the author of four books of poetry including, Notes From the Undaunted<\/i>. Her poems have appeared in: Your Daily Poem, Isele Quarterly, Devil\u2019s Party Press, Green Ink Poetry, Rat’s Ass Review<\/i>, and more. Jane is a former history teacher and developer of curricula. She lives in the sunny, diverse state of Florida.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWendy Freborg<\/a><\/strong> is a retired social worker whose work has appeared in Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Misfit<\/i>, and WestWard Quarterly<\/i>. Her life includes one husband, one son, two grandchildren, enough friends, too many doctors, and not enough dogs. Her pleasures are her family, crossword puzzles, learning new things, and remembering old times.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFrank Freeman<\/a><\/strong>‘s poetry has been published in Maine Sunday Telegram, Sehnsucht, The American Journal of Poetry, The Aroostook Review, The Axe Factory, The Decadent Review, The New York Quarterly, SN Review, Tiger\u2019s Eye<\/i>, and is forthcoming in Verdad, The Opiate,<\/i> and Main Street Rag<\/i>. Grew up mostly in Texas, married a Maine woman. House, kids, dog, cat, chickens, bees, small family business. Writes in the mornings to stay sane, keeps family business books in afternoons.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGerald Friedman<\/a><\/strong> grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches physics and math in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He has published poetry in various journals, recently Blue Unicorn Review, Abandoned Mine, One Sentence Poems<\/i>, and Cold Moon Journal.<\/i> You can read more of his work at jerryfriedman.wixsite.com\/my-site-2\/<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLisa Caroline Friedman<\/a><\/strong> was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, grew up in New York City, and currently resides in Palo Alto, California with her husband, daughters, and thirteen year-old labradoodle. Her first published poem appeared in the March 2023 issue of Pink Panther Magazine<\/i>. She received a BA in English from Stanford University and this winter, will begin Antioch University\u2019s low-residency MFA in Creative Writing program. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAfter 31 years in banking, John Ganshaw<\/a><\/strong> retired to follow his dream of owning a hotel in Southeast Asia. This led to many new experiences enabling John to see the world through a different lens, leading him to write his story through essays, poetry, and a yet unpublished memoir. John\u2019s work has appeared in Native Skin, Runamok Books\/Growerly, Post Roe Alternatives, Empyrean Literary Magazine, OMQ, Open Door Magazine, SCARS poems and short stories, among others. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFrances Gaudiano<\/a><\/strong> is a veterinary nurse by day and a writer in all her spare moments. Her novel, The Listener was published last year and two other projects are in the editing stages. Additionally, she has had poetry and short stories published in a variety of journals and is the author of a textbook on Veterinary Dermatology. Currently, she lives in Cornwall (England) with two dogs, a large snake and two humans.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary R. Gowers<\/a><\/strong> is a writer and a long-term resident of The Osage Artists Community (OAC) in Belle, Missouri. Gary started his writing career in South Korea where he worked as an ESL instructor and wrote textbooks for learners of the English language. He has published one novel titled 5th Floor Francis<\/i>, and is currently working on several writing projects, including a book of poetry, a collection of Flash NonFiction and several screenplays.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, \u201cCovert\u201d \u201cMemory Outside The Head\u201d and \u201cGuest Of Myself\u201d are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong> is a poet living in Santa Cruz, California. Counts herself lucky to have a home, other fine poets and love to write with, to learn from. She has been published in the Rat\u2019s Ass Review Winter 2021.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong> has been published in the Rat’s Ass Review previously. He is Series Editor for Sampson Low’s ‘Potcake Chapbooks – Form in Formless Times’, and blogs at formalverse.com<\/a> from his hometown of Governor’s Harbour in the Bahamas. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDave Jarecki<\/a><\/strong> is a professional writer and educator, living in Milton, VT. In his baseball days, his out-pitch was the slurve. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDaniel Kemper<\/a><\/strong> is an unaccomplished man. He’s walked The-Bridge-of-No-Return across the Sachong (and returned), carried an acolyte\u2019s cross, read poetry at The Gates of Hell (Rodin Gardens), touched the bones of Dinkenesh, climbed Masada; he’s been How-Berkeley-Can-You-Be and walked Pamlico Sound barefoot. He\u2019s written when there was no one he could tell and he writes now to bring out things of value and to engage and embrace all those who are doing the same. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Kinerk<\/a><\/strong> writes fiction, plays and poems. His most recent publication is \u2018Tales from the Territory: Stories of Southeast Alaska.\u2019 A long-time Alaskan, he and his wife, Anne, now make their home in Cambridge MA.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard LeDue<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of eight books of poetry. His latest book, \u201cSecondhand Salvation,\u201d is forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press in February 2023. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n Alex LeGrys<\/a><\/strong> is 21 years old and received her bachelor\u2019s degree in sociology from Bard College. Her work has appeared in Apricity Press, Better than Starbucks, The Whistling Shade, Bonfire Lit, and Blue Lake Review. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Levin<\/a><\/strong> is a lawyer, solar energy developer and writer based in Washington DC. His work has appeared in three collections plus anthologies and periodicals, and has received poetry and feature journalism awards. He is co-author of an internationally-presented concert documentary with live classical music, Two Pianos\u2014Playing for Life <\/i>(2018–) and two full-length nonfiction volumes, A Border Town in Poland <\/i>(2021) and Firebird: The Musical Life and [Revolutionary] Times of [Classical Pianist] Rebecca Burstein-Arber<\/i> (2023). His fourth poetry collection, Watching Bees<\/i>, will be published September 2023. See michaellevinpoetry.com<\/a> and paperspleaseanodyssey.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTamara Madison<\/a><\/strong> is the author of the chapbooks \u201cThe Belly Remembers\u201d (Pearl Editions) and “Along the Fault Line” (Picture Show Press), and three full-length volumes of poetry, \u201cWild Domestic\u201d, \u201cMoraine\u201d (Pearl Editions) and “Morpheus Dips His Oar” (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). Her work has appeared in Chiron Review, Rat’s Ass Review, the Writer\u2019s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, Worcester Review and many other publications. She is a swimmer and a dog lover. More about Tamara can be found at
\nwww.tamaramadisonpoetry.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJason Melvin<\/a><\/strong> is a father, husband, grandfather, and metals processing center supervisor. He is a later-in-life storyteller, having first published in 2020. His work has appeared in Roi Faineant, Olney, Punk Noir<\/i> and others. His poems were nominated for Pushcarts by Bullshit Lit<\/i> and Outcast<\/i>. His first chapbook, Wrong Things,<\/i> will be published by Bullshit Lit in early 2023. He can be found on Twitter @Jason5Melvin<\/a>, Instagram @JasonMelvin5<\/a> and on his website at jasonmelvinwords.weebly.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong> is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has returned to live in his native England. His acrostic sonnets have appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Better Than Starbucks, the Creativity Webzine, Current Conservation, the Ekphrastic Review, Grand Little Things, Light, Lighten Up Online, MONO., the New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, the Satirist, the Washington Post and WestWard Quarterly. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn C. Morrison<\/a><\/strong>‘s most recent book is Monkey Island,<\/i> from redbat books. His poems have appeared in Poetry Northwest, Comstock Review, Two Hawks<\/i>, and previously in the Rat’s Ass Review<\/i>. He teaches for the Attic Institute in Portland, Oregon, and runs a slow but respectable middle distance.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong> is a returning contributor to RAR<\/i>. The latest of his seven full-length poetry collections (2014-22) are Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense<\/i> and Turns & Twists<\/i>. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience<\/i> won a Choice<\/i> award. He has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review<\/i> awards, Storyteller<\/i>‘s People’s Choice award, one Best of Net nomination, one Rhysling nom, and ten Pushcart nominations\u2014for which he feels stunned and grateful. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBob Nimmo<\/a><\/strong> studied law and literature and has poetry scattered worldwide in magazines, including the \u201cInclement\u201d, \u201cFire\u201d, \u201cThe California Quarterly\u201d, \u201cAspire\u201d and the \u201cSN Review\u201d. He has authored three poetry collections, has a lyrical presence on Twitter, Instagram and his own blog. He lives in Pegasus, New Zealand with his gay partner and he delights in finding life\u2019s little dark idiosyncrasies that merit a muse.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobert Nisbet<\/a><\/strong> is a Welsh poet widely-published in Britain, where he won the Prole Pamphlet Competition in 2017, and in the USA, where he is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine Owen<\/a><\/strong> is the author of fifteen collections of poetry and prose. She hosts the podcast Ms Lyric’s Poetry Outlaws.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKenneth Pobo<\/a><\/strong> (he\/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet<\/i>(Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City<\/i> (Circling Rivers), and Lilac And Sawdust<\/i> (Meadowlark Press) and Gold Bracelet in a Cave: Aunt Stokesia<\/i> (Ethel Press). His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Asheville Literary Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDiana Rosen<\/a><\/strong> is an essayist, poet, and flash writer whose first full-length book of micro fiction and poetry ,”High Stakes & Expectations”, was published in 2022 by www.thetinypublisher.com She has work in Drunk Monkeys, Rattle, Tiferet Journal and many other print and online journals in the U.S., Australia, Canada, India, and England. To read more of her work, please visit www.authory.com\/dianarosen <\/a><\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\nEd Ruzicka<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s most recent book of poems \u201cMy Life in Cars\u201d investigates the rocky marriage of desire to the American highway. Ed\u2019s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary, the Xavier Review, etc. Ed lives with his wife, Renee, in Baton Rouge, LA where they often sit on the patio at sunset. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMykyta Ryzhykh<\/a><\/strong> lives in Nova Kakhovka Cit\u0443, Ukraine. He is published in the journals “Dzvin,” “Ring A,” “Polutona,” “Rechport,” “Topos,” “Articulation,” “Formaslov,” “Colon,” “Literature Factory,” and “Literary Chernihiv,” and on the portals “Literary Center\u201d and \u201cSoloneba.\u201d <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Sarai<\/a><\/strong>’s poems are in Barrow Street, The Southampton Review, New Ohio Review<\/i>, and many other journals. Her collections and chapbooks include That Strapless Bra in Heaven<\/i> (Kelsay Books); Geographies of Soul and Taffeta<\/i> (Indolent); and The Future is Happy<\/i> (Blaze VOX). She also writes fictions of varying sizes.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong> is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called<\/i> and Until I Couldn\u2019t<\/i> She is the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters\u2019 Journey in Photography and Poetry<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDonald Sellitti<\/a><\/strong> honed his writing skills as a scientist\/educator at a Federal medical school before turning to poetry following his retirement. Numerous publications in journals with titles such as Cancer Research and Oncology Letters have been followed by publications in journals with somewhat more fanciful titles like The Alchemy Spoon, Better than Starbucks, and Rat\u2019s Ass Review, which nominated him for a Pushcart Prize in 2022.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary Standin<\/a><\/strong> is an engineer living in fabled Paterson, NJ. One publication in The Dead Mule and this.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong> lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, As it Ought to Be, Loch Raven Review, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Bulb Culture Collective, Bindweed, One Art, Young Ravens Literary Review, Sanctuary,<\/i> and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not<\/i>, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSherri Wright<\/a><\/strong> is a member of the Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild and the Key West Poetry Guild. She walks her dog on the boardwalk, and volunteers for a local food rescue. Her work has appeared in Creative Nonfiction, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Dreamer\u2019s Creative Writing, Persimmon Tree, Ocotillo Review, Delaware Beach Life, Raven\u2019s Perch, and Quartet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nNat Zhichkin<\/a><\/strong> is a poet from New York, but he currently lives in Montreal. He’s currently working on getting his degree in sexuality studies at Concordia University. Outside of writing poetry he likes to draw, make collages, and obsess over obscure music and films. He can be found on instagram<\/a>.
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\n <\/p>\n

\nBack to Top<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nEdited by Roderick Bates
\n 
\nRAT\u2019S ASS REVIEW FALL-WINTER ISSUE 2023 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/div>\n

 
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\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

        (Cover Art Choices by Andrea Damic)       The Poetry   Kelli Allen     EVEN NOW, SOMEONE ELSE IS PLANNING   how you might disgrace yourself. Gentleness is telling the boy to read beneath a tractor, walnuts poking denim already too worn for the season. The father and his […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":63,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-4242","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4242","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4242"}],"version-history":[{"count":60,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4242\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4361,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/4242\/revisions\/4361"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4242"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}