{"id":4408,"date":"2025-02-10T23:33:43","date_gmt":"2025-02-11T04:33:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4408"},"modified":"2026-02-04T16:52:11","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T21:52:11","slug":"spring-summmer-2025","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=4408","title":{"rendered":"Spring-Summer 2025"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\n <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>Cover Art “The Last Caress” by Bill Wolak<\/a><\/strong><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine Arra<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCOUNTDOWNS & ACCIDENTAL VIDEO CLIPS
\n   co-written with Alex Stolis<\/i>
\n 
\nWaiting on a rocket
\n   to launch over a Florida moon, seconds
\n   tick down, for Santa, first day of school,
\n   a summer that comes too late.
\n 
\nA first and last anything.
\n   Last radiation, first scan,
\n   the last time your arms circled
\n   me; how long before again?
\n 
\nCalendar X\u2019d out, yearning
\n   tides swell, bellies hunger.
\n 
\nYour voice, a half continent away
\n   melts me into memory, that first kiss;
\n   how we tried to photo capture
\n   another, made a video clip instead.
\n 
\nLips pillow into sensation, noses a puzzled fit.
\n   How we tumbled.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nShalmi Barman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTEMPERING
\n 
\nThese are the choices. Tumbled anyhow
\ninto a burning lake quite rudderless
\nwith company that\u2019s (plainly speaking) mixed,
\nyou must make do. See how the bay leaf lies
\nresigned and limp as the papery skin
\nof chillies blackens bitterly. Regard
\nthe stick of cinnamon that, half submerged,
\nbecomes a raft for cumin castaways.
\nAnd further on, do pause to contemplate
\nthe cardamom retreating into pods,
\nhunkering down in fibrous fortresses
\nsecure from frantic garlic\u2019s sizzling throes.
\nInhale. This savory end will be (they say)
\na new birth. All this for a greater good
\nwe will not live to see. Or so I\u2019m told.
\nOr so I must believe to stay the course
\nlest, cracking like the yellow mustard seed,
\nwe leap into the void. Strike some god\u2019s face.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCarole Bernstein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSONNET
\n 
\nWhen my uncle started touching me he illustrated
\nthat life was shit and evil would triumph,
\nand, behold, the dingy boxers of a bald-pated,
\naging egomaniac, with the penis bump\u2014
\nthough I live to be ninety\u2014I\u2019ll never un-see.
\nAnd I\u2019m already sixty. (Did it ever emerge, or not?)
\nHe dismantled the fragile curtain, kindly
\nexposed the creeping darkness and rot
\nbehind leaf-raking, stubbly kisses, graduation gowns,
\nand carrying high on shoulders. There was the rattle
\nof the knob to my room. The garage door grinding down
\nto announce him home. Hah: home<\/i>. I still straddle
\ntwo worlds, clutch for that curtain, something to hold
\nto not feel quite so naked or so cold.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF.S. Blake<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE MAGIC OF GOODBYES
\n 
\nOur goodbyes keep getting harder
\neach one building upon the last
\ntears stacked on soaked shoulders
\nand new words conjured daily for sadness,
\nlonging and love.
\n 
\nStrange dictionaries
\nprinted at each parting to serve as brutal
\nreference for hearts rendered molten
\nand bodies ripped from each other as we mourn
\nthe magicians\u2019 bird stuffed back into his hat.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCHANNELING CESAR VALLEJO
\n 
\nI may well die in Lima, on a grey day,
\nin what they call invierno<\/i>. On a dry day.
\nIt doesn\u2019t rain in Lima.
\nI will not regret it, but I will mourn.
\nI\u2019ll mourn those I\u2019ll leave behind
\nbecause they loved me. And for that reason
\nthey\u2019ll miss me. And they will be sad,
\nand I will be in a dimension of spirit and beauty.
\nThat is, should I realize that I died.
\n 
\nI wonder what they will say about me:
\nthat she was mean, that she was good,
\nthat she was kind, that she was weird,
\nthat she was talented and that she was dumb.
\nAnd I won\u2019t care at all because I can\u2019t hear them,
\nand I won\u2019t care\u2014because.
\nBut perhaps they will be charitable,
\nand some may even have known me.
\n 
\nAnd they will burn me at eighteen hundred F\u2014
\nthat is about a thousand C.
\nAnd I\u2019ll weigh about five to eight pounds.
\nAnd my loved one will mix my ashes
\nwith the soft, pregnant earth of the jungle
\nwhere I\u2019ll soon become a sumaumeira<\/i> perhaps.
\nThat\u2019s where he\u2019ll sit and write his poems.<\/a>
\nIn my shade.
\n 
\n 
\nIsabelle Bohl<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE AUGURY OF STORKS
\n 
\nIn early September,
\nI tell you geese have begun flying south.
\nYou return, I’ve recently spotted
\nseven white storks gathering on rooftops<\/i>,
\nso I forget all about my harbinger honkers.
\n 
\nI am five again, sitting beside you,
\ngazing at an illustration of a picturesque town\u2014
\nhalf-timbered houses under steep, tiled roofs
\nwhere lanky birds perch,
\nred-billed and knobby-kneed,
\ndonning coquettish courier kepis\u2014
\nIt’s June, and beaming red-cheeked folks
\nare expecting them
\nto infuse life in homes, deliver pink
\nor blue baby bundles
\nswaddled and slung from benevolent beaks.
\nAnd you, heavy with my brother.
\n 
\nYet today is fall.
\nWhen your voice cracks again,
\nIt’s a bad omen, their going<\/i>
\nI know you’re no longer forecasting
\ncolder months moving in.
\n 
\n 
\nI CLEAN MY GLASSES AS WE ARGUE
\nTHE END OF OUR MARRIAGE
\n 
\nWith a folded wet wipe,
\nI reach both sides at once,
\nin careful, circular motions,
\nlift grime near the rim of the frame\u2013
\nsuch hard-to-reach places\u2013
\nthen tend to the well-worn acetate.
\nSmudges rub off with ease,
\nbut abrasions remain.
\n 
\nWhat more can be said, then?
\nI crumple the wipe now dry and sharp,
\nlest I cause further damage to lenses.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLaura Buxbaum<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTATTOO
\n(after Lyn Hejinian)
\n 
\nAn anxious wind mutters through leaves,
\n   around the house, through the
\n   screen door
\nListen! What is that bird? Check the Cornell
\n    app every time. You’d think I’d remember
\n   a cardinal
\n(Every moment is already gone)
\nPlunge into the ocean! Cold luminescence
\n   on living skin! Joy!
\nI clean old emails. Campaign Deadline, Give
\n   Today\/Best Bras, 10% Off\/Happy
\n   belated birthday\/Ways To Save!\/three
\n   from my dead sister asking me to look over
\n   a cover letter for a job she really really wants
\nDream of the dead. Maybe they can reach you.
\n   My dad hugged me tight last night. He was
\n   warm & real
\nA boy sails into the wind, considers the years. They
\n   stretch ahead, but less each year as time
\n   contracts. Boy<\/i>, I say: Do not shun adventure!
\n   Ride fear like a dragon!<\/i>
\nDarling, speak to me of our life to come. I\u2019ve tasted
\n   your salty essence. We\u2019ve shared our voices note
\n   on note. Your smiling face. Your working body
\nWhat is the algorithm that will answer these questions:
\n   Who? When? What the fuck for?
\nWhere are those hens hiding their eggs? Searching,
\n   I knelt on a bee working the clover. My
\n   swollen leg is a remembrance. I’m sorry
\nThese summer days were so long, once
\nFirst tomatoes. A forest of weeds rampant! Then
\n   the peaches!
\nShe sings in my dreams, but less than she did
\n   When will I get that tattoo?
\n   She is waiting.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSarah Carleton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nMELTING ICE CAPS
\n 
\nNever thought I\u2019d mourn the passing of ice
\n\u2014the force that fells trees in early-winter storms,
\n 
\nthe deep chill that freezes waves midcurl,
\ncrust on the windshield blocking my view,
\n 
\nslick asphalt that spins cars on a January morning,
\nsolid puddle top I tap with my boot
\n 
\njust to hear it break like peanut brittle.
\nOh, ice\u2014showing us we can be both hard and soft,
\n 
\npond hockey and side stroke, babbler and silent one
\n\u2014here I am, radiating affection toward you,
\n 
\ncomplicated friend, who dissolve, my warm
\nembrace only hastening your demise.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJoe Cottonwood<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJUST A QUICK NOTE TO SAY
\n 
\nloons are calling
\nsounds like Corinna
\n   Coh-
\n       reen-
\n           ah<\/i>\u2026
\nas my heart calls for you.
\n 
\nSilent moon is splitting calm water
\nwith yellow beam oh how I wish
\nI were parting your hair.
\n 
\nEleven mergansers survived the summer
\n(used to be eighteen), swam a cautious circle
\naround the big boulder and then one by one
\nflapped onto the flat top where they preen
\nwatchful for the bald eagle
\nand are you safe
\nare the windows locked?
\n 
\nSomething splashed I think a mink.
\nI miss you and your minky parts.
\n 
\n 
\nMY GIRLFRIEND\u2019S DOG
\n 
\n 
\nMy girlfriend has a terrier
\nwho cleans her after we make love.
\nThe dog waits at bedside,
\nknows the moment
\nand leaps.
\n 
\nMy girlfriend closes her eyes, smiles,
\nswears it is not a sexual feeling
\nbut a cleansing. She says
\n   ”If you were to wash my feet,
\n   it would be the same.”
\nI trust my girlfriend. She loves me.
\nShe loves that dog.
\n 
\nIn the bathtub
\nnot with warm tongue but
\nwith loofah sponge and scented soap
\nI wash her feet.
\nIt is not the same.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTony Dawson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTO HELL IN A HANDCART
\n 
\nThe Devil turned up to set out his stall
\nshowing his handcarts, each with its pall.
\nThey\u2019ve all been designed under Lucifer\u2019s spell,
\nsince many among us will ride one to Hell.
\nMs. Meloni\u2019s cart looks exceptionally cute:
\nthe handles are raised in a Fascist salute.
\nMarine Le Pen\u2019s will pull to the right
\nbecause of the swastikas just out of sight.
\nAnother, gold-plated for the US of A,
\ncomes with square wheels, but what can one say?
\nThe Devil decided to saddle them with Trump,
\nensuring the nation will be reduced to a rump.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n\"\"<\/a>“Sandstorm” photo by Andrew Delaney<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Delaney<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSANDSTORM
\n 
\nIn the early evening,
\nit came across the desert
\nlike a genie rising from a teapot.
\nI went inside the ger<\/i>
\nand sat on the bed to write
\nabout our camel rides,
\nfeeling the wind pick up,
\nthe ceiling flaps flicker.
\nThen a patter, like rain,
\nstarted to fall, and I thought
\nof the herd of sheep I saw
\nout on the nearby flat,
\nhow wonderful it\u2019d be,
\nrefreshing and nurturing.
\nBut then the lights went out;
\nthe genie tried to lift the sides,
\nnow pummeling the flaps.
\nA roaring rent the heavens.
\nI was thinking of a downpour,
\nlasting twenty minutes.
\nThe lights came back on
\nin the after calm and quiet.
\nFinishing my notes, I went to bed
\nand got some decent sleep.
\n 
\nOutside, in the morning,
\nsand covered everything;
\nsome roofs were caved in,
\nfurniture dispersed and broken.
\nAnd then I thought of the sheep.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Dellabough<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWE CROUCH LIKE DUMB MIRACLES AT THE EDGE WAITING FOR FLIGHT
\n 
\nThe pond is frozen over with ice stars. When I look them up on my new iPhone 16, fleece pajamas for the grandkids pop up instead. It\u2019s nearly Christmas, stick season. Small dark birds I can\u2019t identify forage near the stone wall and the footprints in crusty snow left when I searched for an arrow my grandson had shot into a tree. Forced-air heat makes a racket. I have to wear earplugs at night, plus it dries my lips and legs. I want a fresh pouf, the old orange one is leaking little plastic beads. Oh no, my phone says fleece is made of plastic, maybe flannel is better. But I already bought fleece loungewear in a color called Cake Batter. It keeps me warm and guilty. Adam next door has piled dead wood twelve feet high. I wonder how he\u2019ll keep the whole forest from becoming the bonfire. That would be deadly and spectacular. When I google fire safety, “It\u2019s like a pina colada<\/i>” comes up, so while true snow falls, I remember lying in the bottom of Nate\u2019s boat, he is on top of me, or wait, was that Mark? I know rum was involved. Today I drink dealcoholized wine, which costs as much as the real stuff. Maybe I\u2019ll learn to think of water as reward. In the novel I\u2019m reading, terrorists try to poison a city\u2019s drinking supply. I try to imagine air insecurity, which would mean nothing (ness). Keep breathing. Decide not to worry as if worrying is a choice. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClive Donovan<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCAFE TANGO
\n 
\nIn the hot crush of steamy cantina,
\nthe meticulous pleated fan of the bandoneon
\nunfolds with its prolonged pull before plunging
\nback with a series of teasing tremulant stutters
\nthat probably has a technical term for it
\nwhich I can’t discover in my thesaurus.
\nI thought it was maybe piccata<\/i>
\nbut I find this is a kind of snack italiano<\/i>
\nlike pressed chicken, sliced and saut\u00e9ed.
\n 
\nThe moist tangoistas, glued breast to breast,
\nwalk and sway, revolving, until, at last, the box player
\nsqueezes out the final particles of oxygen.
\nThe couples stop, spines erect, in that thrilling game of pause…
\nthen a groan and glorious suck of opening bellows…
\nAnd a trapped fly drops to the floor, released.
\nIt staggers away, off-stage, in a weave of zig-zags,
\nmostly unnoticed in the sultry heat…
\nas skilful fingers pummel buttons swifter than feet…
\n 
\n 
\nSPRING INTIMATIONS
\nIf you enjoy frightening others, you will be reborn as a centipede<\/i>
\nZabs-Dkar Tshogs-Drug-Ran-Grol
\n 
\nWhat was it first ventured forth from its lair?
\nAn earwig, perhaps, from a pine cone,
\ndisdaining the nearby bug hotel
\nbuilt by children\u2014reeking of human chemical.
\nAnd in the rustle of dry leaves there, above mulch
\n 
\nof forest floor where pale sunlight aims its beams,
\nthe last of the frost smoke dissipating,
\nhe’s fast turned to breakfast by a swifter centipede,
\nwhich, notwithstanding 400 million years
\nof evolutionary experience, succumbs to
\n 
\na beetle that is next mashed in the jaws of a lizard,
\nwho, despite the sacrificial offering of tail
\nto thrash and distract a distant relative arriving
\n\u2014an early, very focussed, peckish thrush\u2014
\ndiscovers the same doom as its predecessors.
\n 
\nThis stuffed bird labours upward to a tree branch, fortified
\nand the tree notices vibrations of happy pure notes
\nand responds with its heart sap, trembling,
\nand starts to put forth fat lovely buds of leaves
\nand thus does the lively greening of Spring begin.
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN I SEE HER
\n 
\nThe bottles of perfume on her shelf:
\nSlut Juice, Liquid Lies, Bad Girl.
\nShe smears vaginal ichor behind ears
\njust before she goes off clubbing
\nat the Black Magnolia
\non the cheap nights for students,
\ntantalizing guys and gals alike
\nwhile she makes up her mind.
\nAll the wolves in the room leer.
\nShe wears very little with dainty straps.
\nOn the dance floor she moves and floats
\nlike a lava lamp.
\nWhen I see her, a soft sob,
\ndescending from heaven,
\nlodges in my throat.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nThomas Erickson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE
\n 
\nSometimes it\u2019s the big things
\nthat get my clients in trouble:
\nthe fingerprint on the gun,
\nthe surveillance video of the hand-to-hand,
\nthe semen on the bedspread.
\n 
\nSometimes it\u2019s the small things:
\na strand of hair on a sweater,
\nan undeleted Facebook post,
\na teardrop tattoo.
\n 
\nI like when the judge tells the jury
\nIf you can reconcile the evidence upon any
\n reasonable hypothesis other than guilt
\nthen you should find the Defendant not guilty<\/i>
\nbecause it always makes me feel
\nlike we, you and I (not me and some
\nanxious client), have a chance.
\n 
\nSure, my fingerprints are everywhere,
\nnot hearing you is part of my DNA,
\nand that tear in your eye falls too often.
\n 
\nBut in the morning, I\u2019ll wake up
\nand take the dog for a walk, get
\nready for work, bring you your coffee,
\nand kiss you good-bye. You\u2019ll smile
\nat me and we\u2019ll start the day.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE VIRTUE OF FORGETTING
\n 
\nI heard someone say \u201cEureka\u201d on TV or somewhere
\nthe other day. It reminded me of my client Eureka.
\nShe was beat up a lot by her boyfriend who was selling crack
\nout of her first floor flat over on the east side.
\n 
\nOne day, boyfriend noticed a guy working on a telephone pole
\nacross the street. Boyfriend thought the telephone guy was an undercover cop.
\n 
\nThe next day, boyfriend told Eureka to go outside and call him
\nwhen the guy came down from the pole. She called
\nand boyfriend walked over to the truck
\nand shot the guy from the phone company in the head.
\n 
\nEureka, who was 18, got 20 years which I thought was way too long,
\nI was upset about it for a while.
\nThat was at least 30 years and hundreds of clients ago.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s not the fact that I forgot about Eureka that surprises me so much.
\nIt\u2019s remembering the feeling I had back then about what happened to her.<\/a>
\n 
\nRegret.
\n 
\n 
\nVern Fein<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nUNSUNG HANGING:
\nELIZAVETA VORONYANSKAYA
\n 
\nIn Communist Russia, the great Solzhenitsyn
\nwho scratched THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO,
\non toilet paper in freezing Siberia,
\nwas released and fled to the U.S.
\nwhere his iconic condemnation
\nwas published and exposed
\nthe Soviet tyranny to all
\nuntil Glasnost freed him
\nto speak the truth in freedom.
\n 
\nBut back in Russia, an unsung woman
\nElizaveta V., the unsung, hanged one
\nhad transcribed every word of horror,
\nbut wanted to stay in her homeland,
\nI surmise, chose to live with family.
\nDid not flee when he did, but swung\u2014
\nshe had typed every one of his words
\nand helped the others preserve the work.
\n  
\nWhat devil conjured a rope
\nstrung around the neck
\nof an condemned human,
\nfeet kicking, body twisting,
\nexecution for a crime.
\n 
\nDid she know she had changed history
\nwhen the KGB strung her up
\nfrom her stairwell and
\nbroke her neck?<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHarrison Fisher<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE DEATH OF JACK BENNY
\n 
\nWe are rarely moved
\nby the deaths of famous people\u2014
\nthere are so many of them\u2014but I learned today
\nthat Astrud Gilberto died last week.
\n 
\nIf the girl from Ipanema,
\na gauzy garment tied about her hips,
\nhas never sashayed across
\nthe beaches of your mind
\n 
\nto the flat ring
\nof Astrud\u2019s hollow, ethereal voice,
\nyou have no soul.
\n 
\nI was in college in the early Seventies
\nand my girlfriend was going to a different school,
\nbut we were together
\nthe day we learned Jack Benny had died.
\n 
\nShe said that his passing
\nmade the world feel less safe,
\na feeling I instantly shared.
\n 
\nNow it\u2019s some fifty years later, and
\nI look around and see
\nfully entrenched
\n 
\nthe unsafe world
\nthat came through the door
\nJack Benny\u2019s death kicked down<\/a>
\nso long ago.
\n 
\n 
\nMeg Freer<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nEVENING, WHEN THE DOGS HOWL
\n 
\nSome poor sod howls in the emergency room hallway
\nfilled with other chaps on gurneys, and he can\u2019t help
\nbut yell for help in all the clatter and chaos,
\nand the dogs in the doctors\u2019 heads howl
\nbecause there are no beds to put all these people,
\nand another poor soul howls as she arrives,
\nonly to have her body expire while she waits,
\nand a frail elderly woman howls in pain
\nand dismay at the noise and bright lights
\nuntil a nurse finally squeezes both her
\nand the poor sod from the hallway into a closet
\nconverted into a room meant for one,
\nand she listens to the man howl and calls
\nto the staff, He must be 100 years old
\nand he\u2019s very sick. Give him a bed first,<\/i>
\nand the animal shelter dogs howl for their humans
\nwho won\u2019t be coming back, and the ambulance sirens
\nhowl as they bring more suffering\u2014those living
\non the streets and in tents\u2014into the ER hallways,
\nand the nurses and doctors howl in despair
\nand wonder how their hospital became like this.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGerald Friedman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nPATIO WINDOW
\n 
\nI wanted a better look
\nat my reflection,
\nbut walking toward it I shaded the glass
\nand saw you.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE WARRIOR\u2019S HEART
\n 
\nThe warrior\u2019s heart
\nrejoices when the hand shoots,
\nor it feels pain,
\nbut not enough to stop it.
\n 
\nThe warrior\u2019s heart
\nis filled with fear
\nevery speck, every second,
\nbut not enough to stop it.
\n 
\nThe warrior\u2019s heart
\nis under the fourth and fifth ribs,
\njust left of the midline.
\nA bullet, a knife, a shard of armor
\nstops it.
\n 
\n 
\nDRIVING ON THE TAOS HIGHWAY
\n 
\nOn my left under the clouds\u2019 border
\nthe moon startles me,
\nblurred behind spring snow:
\nthe ghost of last month\u2019s moon,
\nan unread omen (the most common kind),
\nthe bride leaving the fatherly mountains.
\nI look back at the road; I look down
\nat my car\u2019s filthy floor
\nin the gray light.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE RETURN
\n 
\nI recall the first time
\nback from San Francisco
\nsix airline hours
\nsqueezed between two behemoths
\nnothing but a small bag
\nof pretzels to eat
\nin the company of a book of beat poetry
\n(a gift from a friend)
\nso excruciatingly bad
\nI watched an even worse movie instead
\nand then the crowd at the airport
\nfiercely slapping my slipped disc
\nthe “when are you going to settle down
\nand get married like your brother Brian?”
\nsigns over the doorway
\nwelcoming me back
\nby some pet name
\nI’d long forgotten
\nme just wanting to curl up
\nand bathe in no particular order
\nbut having to suffer through
\na room full of decaying football pennants
\nthe dreaded photo album
\na plate of childhood’s favorite food
\nthe latest war stories
\nfrom my father’s victory garden
\netc etc etc
\nokay Thomas Wolfe
\nyou can say I told you so…
\nplane schedules to the west coast
\nunfolding in my brain
\nand my parents threatening ten
\non the gushometer \u2013
\noh they slayed the fatted calf all right
\nand there\u2019s me\u2026
\na vegetarian.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary Grossman<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nADOLESCENCE
\n 
\nImagine this,
\nI\u2019m fourteen, home from a weekend trip,
\nsmiling at the lemony rays of an LA
\nDecember afternoon, then turn the key
\nin the worn brass plated doorknob.
\n 
\nImagine this,
\nmy nostrils are punched by fists
\nof shit and vomit, and I wonder how
\nsome cat or coon entered the apartment
\nand died.
\n 
\nImagine this,
\nMom\u2019s lying in the mess, uncapped
\namber pill bottles lined up like soldiers
\nin a firing squad on her nightstand.
\n 
\nImagine this,
\nit’s not the first time.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nColleen S. Harris<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nGRANDMOTHER TO THE NEW BRIDE
\n 
\nBeware becoming ripe for
\nmarriage, men are ever thieves
\nof beauty and water hangs like
\n 
\ngod-gifted crystal from your
\nnipples in the rain. Shroud your
\nbrilliance with a veil to keep from
\n 
\nblinding him as you glide on
\nnew shoes down the carpeted
\naisle, to dim your own memory
\n 
\nof your skin like a sheet over
\nthe luminescence of youth, of
\nyour body an unbruised peach
\n 
\nbrimming with life. Asking time
\nto stop is like begging mercy of
\nthe moon. Tie your man to you
\n 
\nwith gold, with love and lies and
\nhealthy sons. Stand by your man,
\nbut be certain to sharpen your heels.
\n 
\n 
\nTWO APPLES TOO HEAVY
\n 
\nMy tears come too free
\nto be holy, my hem too frayed
\n 
\nto carry leaden cures.
\nYou lavish your love
\n 
\nat the feet of stone saints,
\npleading your case
\n 
\non rosary knees
\nin a wooden house
\n 
\nthat smells of wine
\nand shame. I will not
\n 
\nstay as a favor to a God
\nI barely believe in
\n 
\nwhile you drown in guilt,
\nhalf a sin shy of hell
\n 
\nand two apples too heavy
\nfor heaven.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDavid M. Harris<\/a> reviews poet Annette Sisson’s new work: Winter Sharp With Apples <\/i><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\n  It has been, for a while, a commonplace that poetry collections should have themes, as though respectable poets devote themselves to one issue at a time, and nothing else. And there are plenty of quite good poets who do just that, writing fifty or a hundred poems in a row, all exploring a single question or story.
\n  But this is a recent development, and simply does not apply to poets who, like Annette Sisson, have some themes to which they return, but by which they are not obsessed. Sisson\u2019s latest book, Winter Sharp With Apples (from Terrapin Books), turns often to images and ideas about nature and our place in it, but it also shows us a wide-ranging mind at work.
\n  One of the important factors that holds the collection together is Sisson\u2019s radical honesty. Her frank voice and open relationship with her readers hold our attention and allow us \u2013 even urge us \u2013 to step beyond the most easily accessible level of her poetry and dig for more, knowing that the digging will be profitable.
\n  Of course, honesty has been, for the last century or so, one of the factors we expect from poetry with ambition to be more than self-expression. Self-expression is fine for beginning poets, but it is only a beginning; good poets tie what they have learned about themselves to what we can learn from them about ourselves. Honesty includes the self-knowledge that your relationship with your mother is of no interest to us unless it illuminates our relationships with our mothers.
\n  And that is where Sisson shines. A poem such as \u201cClutch,\u201d for example, looks at her relationship with her mother without complaining (empathy, after all, is part of radical honesty) and finally acknowledging that holding on is a necessary prequel to letting go. Both parents of adult children and the children themselves can feel the truth of this. Sisson consistently draws us into experiences from her life and expands them to encompass the lives of her readers as well.
\n  Nearly all the poems in Winter Sharp With Apples do come from her own experiences. Sisson invites us into her life, in part as an example of what can be done with memory, observation, and imaginative consideration. Observation and imagination lead us to vivid and meaningful imagery, with lines like \u201cWe lug our stunted childhoods\/\/like rusted spikes\u201d (from \u201cMuscle Memory\u2019) or \u201ctrophies \u2013 coins\/\/to feed the machine of his parents\u2019 need\u201d (from \u201cGalloping in Darkness\u201d) that provide worlds of context in a few words. We see, or we remember by analogy, much of how these families work, and we can share in the author\u2019s finding ways out of those dilemmas.
\n  Perhaps Sisson\u2019s life has not been extraordinary, the making of a hit film. She has seen some things that most of us have not, but that is not in itself exceptional. Sherlock Holmes says to Dr. Watson (in \u201cA Scandal in Bohemia\u201d) \u201cYou see but you do not observe.\u201d Sisson observes. She pays attention and, like Holmes, extracts meaning where others might not notice it. Add to that her considerable gift for conveying that meaning, and we have a book that is itself a considerable gift for her readers.
\n 
\n 
\n Editor’s Note:<\/strong> It is fitting that this, Rat’s Ass Review’s first review should have been written by RAR’s creator and original editor, David M. Harris. I like to think that something of David’s attitudes has remained here through the years. Still, it is pleasant to have him here in more concrete form. Additionally, it feels right that the poet whose work is being reviewed, Annette Sisson, has had work published here (Spring-Summer 2022). <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nAMITY
\n 
\nChristmas lonely, but
\nfor the company of a Hermit Thrush,
\nbathing at dusk; her haughty prerogative,
\nbusy pizzazz, she\u2019s been soaking wet
\nright here, before.
\nI keep that bird bath clean
\nA seasonal variety, typically shy,
\nor famous or beloved, or related,
\nshe returns.
\nCircle-eyed, long looking,
\nthin, agile legs, she bounces out
\na morse-coded \u201cHello\u201d
\npumps her speckled breast,
\nintent to bathe, despite my spying.
\nWater-soaked flits, like whispers,
\nwings are the only things it could be.
\nI listen through the tawny light,
\nsquinting towards the muddied
\ncolor of her.
\nContented by the innocence
\nof our shared delight,
\nI\u2019ve decided we like each other.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIF ASTROLOGY WERE REAL
\n 
\nIf astrology were real, you\u2019d expect
\nit would be an unremarkable aspect
\nof daily life for someone to select–
\nto fall in love, fully connect–
\nwith two people with the same birthday;
\nfor victims of mass events (tornados, cities wrecked)
\nto share a sun-sign or unlucky day;
\nfor astrology to be so useful that respect
\nfor horoscopes would drive a business power play,
\nand with no reason to suspect
\ninsider information when bets proved correct;
\nand that some other nonsense disarray
\nwould have to be invented to display
\nfor children, lovers, dreamers, to collect–
\nfor old folks suffering neglect–
\nfor young ones on the make, unchecked–
\nfor trash TV and media to infect–
\nand for the rest of us to naturally reject.
\n 
\n 
\nTHE QUEEN
\n 
\nIn March the Queen came, flirting on her throne;
\nApril, I loved her gladly,
\nAnd in May I\u2019ll love her madly,
\nAnd in June I may act badly
\nFor July I\u2019ll love her sadly,
\nCause when August comes, I know that she\u2019ll be gone.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF. D. Jackson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSEVER
\n 
\nI don\u2019t remember how we met.
\nMaybe Aunt Olivia introduced us
\nin that big house with the white balcony,
\nwhen I was ten and you were twenty.
\n 
\nMaybe I sat in your biology class
\nas a teenager, listening to you,
\nbored with teaching,
\ntap out a Conga beat with your pencil:
\ndada dada da da!
\n 
\nMaybe a bluebird shit you
\nsomewhere in my backyard,
\nand you grew into a sapling
\nthat I took a liking to,
\nwatering your trunk on my way to
\nfeed the horses.
\nNot knowing the type of tree you were–
\nInvasive–slowly choking my flora,
\ncrowding out native black-eyed susans,
\ncoreopsis, and red buds.
\n 
\nBut I grow quiet now.
\nNo longer bend a branch
\nto admire your heart-shaped leaves or
\ncollect your cream-colored popcorn seeds
\nto feed the red-wing blackbirds.
\nAnd my silence feels good in my hands,
\nlike an ax splintering roots.
\n 
\n 
\nSALVATION
\n 
\nThe preacher invites us to walk
\nto the front of the congregation
\nto confess our sins.
\nI stand, grip the back of the pew.
\nI don\u2019t want to shake his clammy hand,
\nsmell the stale coffee on his breath
\nas he bends to speak with me.
\n 
\nI slip past ushers holding collection plates;
\nsteal cookies from the dining hall;
\neat them leaning against a headstone.
\nI exhale. Sun and cold spring breeze
\ndry the sweat underneath my dress.
\n 
\nThe dead whisper–they are lazy and content,
\nno more need for preachers and salvation–
\ntell me to hold my sins close<\/i>.
\nTrace them with my fingers
\nlike the scars on my knees;
\nenjoy the raised bumpy feel of them.
\nPress them against the roof of my mouth
\nlike caramel candy; savor the salty taste.
\nLet them help navigate a life still in shadow.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Kfoury<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBOTTLED SHIP
\n 
\n \u201cJust don\u2019t think too hard, it’s a lullaby like Spanish wine swaying between the ice cubes,\u201d I crooned, finding my voice sheltered between the shower tiles, sailing on a new world voyage across the thin ribbons of bass string gold weaved across their polished surface- never to run aground, navigating by the bright-as-north E chord to reach the empire sun where the demo comes to a close and there\u2019ll be enough silence to keep the ship of confidence afloat for another hollow bodied voyage.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBebe Tomlin Lefkoff<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI BELIEVE IN BIGFOOT
\n 
\nI believe in Bigfoot and in little green men
\nand I step carefully ’round mushrooms where fairies have been.
\n 
\nI am sure Nessie’s hiding in that deep Scottish lake
\nand that I\u2019m watched by the angels, each step that I take.
\n 
\nI avoid umbrellas, black cats, and all ladders.
\nI never touch mirrors because they might shatter.
\n 
\nBut my dear brother just told me a disgusting new fact\u2014
\ngum stays seven years in your intestinal tract!
\n 
\nIf I had known, I\u2019d never have blown my first bubble.
\nI\u2019d have used breath mints, if I\u2019d known gum was such trouble.
\n 
\nI start to add up all the gum I\u2019ve gulped down
\nbut another ill thought brings on a new frown.
\n 
\nIf the gum stay for seven, what happens at eight?
\nWill it come back up when I\u2019m on my first date?
\n 
\nMaybe I\u2019ll be dancing with a daring Don Juan
\nand all of a sudden have to rush to the John.
\n 
\nWill the gum come back in one pink gooey lump?
\nWill it all come at once when I take a d\u2014
\n\u2026uhm
\n–when I excuse myself?
\n 
\nMaybe the rubbery<\/i> will all sink to my feet
\nand I\u2019ll bounce like a kangaroo when I walk down the street.
\n 
\nMaybe the sticky<\/i> will migrate to my hands
\nand I\u2019ll climb up walls like Spider-Man can.
\n 
\nMaybe a doctor should do an inspect of me.
\nHe could perform the world\u2019s first gum-ectomy<\/i>.
\n 
\nI pulled out my tablet and typed in my quest,
\nswiped past the ads and skimmed all the rest.
\n 
\nAccording to Google, gum\u2019s gone in mere days.
\nThat was good news, and I shed my malaise.
\n 
\nBut I turned on my brother, sweet vengeance in mind;
\nsomething to scare him (but not too unkind).
\n 
\nI smiled at the brother who had set me to panic.
\n“That band that you like? Mom says they\u2019re satanic!
\n 
\nAnd did you know that you\u2019re not really my brother?
\nWe bought you from some poor sad unwed gypsy mother!
\n 
\nAnd when you go night-night and sleep in your bed
\nspiders crawl in your ears and nest in your head?<\/i>”
\n 
\nHe looked quite alarmed and was beginning to tear
\n“Don\u2019t worry \u2018bout it, bro. They\u2019ll only stay for a year!<\/i>”
\n 
\n 
\nLULLABY OF ASHES
\n 
\nZylata could not rest; her senses were wired.
\nSo much to be done before she retired.
\n 
\nLaundry and dishes, and rooms to be dusted.
\nDemand attention but her thoughts, interrupted.
\n  
\nHer senses were scattered; her emotions askew.
\nShe needed to rest, but there was too much to do.
\n  
\nShe could rest later when her burdens were met,
\nand her heartbeat could slow to a manageable set.
\n  
\nShe cast about, anxious, for the tasks to complete
\nand took up a straw broom, a mindless retreat.
\n  
\nShush, shush, shush. Her broom gently sighed.
\nCold wind cleared clouds to show darkening skies
\n  
\nand expose the harsh searchlight of the bold frozen moon,
\nand the drifts of white snow, gathered in corners and dunes.
\n 
\nBut she did not need light; knew the room without eyes.
\nA timeline of childhood, a bookshelf implied.
\n  
\nA chest full of toys abandoned too soon.
\nTo the left a glass doll case, well chosen, hand hewn.
\n  
\nFine cherry and glass; a hobby acquired
\nwhen her dedulya<\/i>, or grandpa, had been forced to retire.
\n  
\nHe needed a hobby. He said he was bored.
\nBut she knew he had made it for the one he adored.
\n 
\nA slip of white lace caught the edge of her sight–
\na porcelain doll dressed in satins and white.
\n  
\nWith her apron she wiped ashes from her porcelain face
\nand turned to return it to its particular place.
\n  
\nBut the doll case was gone and the wall incomplete.
\nShe stared from the edge of the ragged concrete.
\n 
\nDnipro lay below her, like the Styx before Hell
\nfrom inside the shark’s bite of just one Russian shell.
\n  
\nSmoke billowed up, in great obscene pyres,
\nlit by false dawn of the not distant fires.
\n 
\nIn the distance bombs thudded, then screamed overhead.
\nShe turned and crept gently to her child\u2019s lonely bed.
\n  
\nLifting the girl\u2019s hand, pale as white icy earth,
\nshe counted her fingers, just as she had done at her birth.
\n 
\nShe slipped the sweet doll \u2018neath the quilt of deep red,
\nand stared at her child tucked in the small bed.
\n 
\nShe studies her daughter\u2019s gentle pale face,
\nand thanked God in Heavens for the gift of His grace.
\n 
\nCalming at last, she sang a soft tune
\nand prayed for the daylight she hoped would come soon.
\n 
\nRockabye baby, my sweet darling girl.
\nI\u2019ll tuck in you tight and brush back your curl.
\n 
\nI\u2019ll sit by your side \u2018till the bright sun comes up,
\nand you dance in the daisies and sweet buttercups<\/i>.
\n 
\nIn the flickering light of an incoming flare,
\nher eyes brushed with love over the disheveled blonde hair.
\n 
\nSoftly she touched the cold lifeless face,
\nand laid down beside her in death\u2019s cold embrace.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nINEXHAUSTIBLE GIFTS
\n 
\nwolf bites butt
\npry jaws open
\nswallow
\nwhole
\n 
\ndrink bitter cup
\nregurgitate darkness
\nholy light
\nreveals<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTamara Madison<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE SILVER ARGIOPE SPIDER
\nENGAGES IN SEXUAL CANNIBALISM
\n 
\nAfter sex, she thrusts the male off her
\nwhich results in death
\nmore than two-thirds of the time.
\nThus, she will never have
\n 
\nto pick up his socks from the floor
\nfight him over the remote
\nor watch him sleep in his easy chair.
\n 
\nShe won’t have to try to remember
\nhow he got there, how she got there,
\nhow they. She’ll never have to care
\n 
\nfor him in his old age, never
\nlift him out of bed or help him up
\nfrom the floor. She will never
\n 
\nhave to see him drool,
\nbathe him, or feed him.
\nShe will never hurt her back
\ncaring for him, never have to find
\n 
\na place for him to live out his days,
\nnever have to visit him there,
\n 
\nnever have to miss him
\nlike a limb
\nwhen he’s gone.
\n 
\n 
\nLOVE LETTER OF A SILVER ARGIOPE
\n 
\nMy darling, I have battled my rivals
\nand prevailed, pitched them legless
\n 
\nfrom your web. Now I have you
\nto myself. I admire the silvery corridors
\n 
\nyou have spun, the way the dew
\ncatches the light and glows. But you,
\n 
\nmy giantess, are the most splendid
\nof all. I have seen how you abuse
\n 
\nyour lovers, swaddling them in silk
\nand then reducing them to liquid
\n 
\nthat you suck into your beautiful mouth.
\nMy bravery has impressed you.
\n 
\nYou allow me to enter you for my one
\nmoment of ecstasy. As you wrap me
\n 
\nin silvery tulle, you cannot know
\nthat I have won, for I have left my spent
\n 
\nmember inside you, forever. Yes,
\nmy beauty, I shall be the only father
\n 
\nyour children will ever have. Yours
\nforever, your last, most ardent lover.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian McAllister<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFLORIDA PICKING CREW
\n 
\n1.
\nThe day begins at the ladder barn in the yellow light of a mosquito bulb.
\nWe pair off, one hand at the tops one at the bottoms, and with a steady rhythm
\nstack the ladders one-by-one on the ladder wagon.
\nWhen we get to the grove the box crew has already set out the boxes, six or so to a tree.
\nPick from the top of the ladder and work your way down. That way
\nThe bag gets heavier as you get closer to the ground. You don\u2019t want
\nto be at the top of the ladder holding the weight of a full bag.
\nIt\u2019s piece-work, so you can take a break whenever you want, but remember
\nthe day won\u2019t wait on you.
\n 
\n2.
\nThe day ends like it began, back at the ladder barn. We pair off, one hand at the tops
\none at the bottoms, and stack the ladders back in the barn.
\nThe pay truck will come after the ladders are stowed, fifty-five cents a box.
\n 
\nIf you can find a crew with good contracts, a crew that starts with early grapefruit,
\nand stays on through valencias, there\u2019s work from early fall through June.
\nSummers are hard. Tomatoes are already in. No one\u2019s cutting cane. The shrimp don\u2019t run,
\nso no one needs a deck hand.
\nIn August you can go to Georgia for peaches, but be back In Florida in time for grapefruit.
\nCrews form early.
\nThe season won\u2019t wait on you.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nIT’S JUST BANANAS
\nPeeled bananas appear by a road in Beeston,
\nDerbyshire on the 2nd of each month. No one knows why.<\/i>
\n 
\nI<\/b>f you’re the top banana, watch your back!
\nT<\/b>he number two is eyeing up your spot,
\nS<\/b>upporting you, but hoping soon you’ll lack
\nJ<\/b>ob tenure. They are apt to slyly plot
\nU<\/b>nseating you with messages in code:
\nS<\/b>uppose the date implies it’s number two
\nT<\/b>hat’s dumping peeled bananas by the road?
\nB<\/b>eestonians look vainly for a clue
\nA<\/b>bout the purpose of bananas as
\nN<\/b>octurnal drops, yet what if they convey
\nA<\/b> message that the top banana has
\nN<\/b>o skin, that you\u2019re exposed? \u2026 Your choice: to weigh
\nA<\/b>n instant resignation\u2019s merits\u2014or,
\nS<\/b>tay cool: it’s just bananas, just ignore!<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn C. Morrison<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nOUR FATHERS WERE KILLERS
\n 
\nKillers with jungle knives or grenades,
\nbayonets, killers on silver oceans
\nwith barrels of depth charge. Kill
\nor be killed<\/i> and they weren\u2019t the ones
\nbagged, buried under tidy crosses, little
\n 
\nflags, bones softening to chalk. The doctor
\nwho stitched my lip, cop who\u2019d tease then twist
\nwrist behind the back, even the priest
\nwho placed host upon tongue and whispered
\nCorpus Christi<\/i> flew a bomber before
\nvows. Our uncles with the genius
\n 
\nto jerry-rig any given engine,
\nany machine that should have died
\nlong before. Wary we hid at the edge
\nof the trouble light. They never called us
\ncloser. The war they kept in secret
\nwe saw in movies late at night,
\n 
\nblack and white, the soldier asleep in
\nmuddy trench or in rubble, beside the cold
\nlick of flame, woke to watch friends
\ndie. Not one father coached kindness or taught
\nloss. Not my father of the uneasy kiss.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE TITLE OF A TALE
\n 
\nSo men created gods in their image.
\nWere goddesses, then, of real women born,
\nor did frustrated men, back in an age
\nmen might have cared when women\u2019s wombs were torn,
\nconcoct them out of wishful thinking? Who
\nwas wiser than Athena, though? Not Zeus,
\nher fornicating Father\u2014that\u2019s if you
\nbelieve those myths, where deities were loose
\nof morals, guilty of what we must call
\nrape\u2014statutory rape\u2014today, since They
\nhad power of life-or-death over all
\nmortals with whom they lay, who could not say
\nNo to a lust divine, not even when
\nthe tale was titled Annunciation.
\n 
\n 
\nPAIR OF KINGS
\n 
\nAll Clark Gable had to do
\nwas sit where Hattie sat
\nthe night she won her Oscar\u00ae. He
\nmight not\u2019ve thought of that:
\nbut how the angels would have chimed
\nand cheered the noble cause
\nof basic decency, and broken
\nout in wild applause.
\n 
\nBenny Goodman would not sleep
\nwhere his Brothers could not stay.
\nHe paved the American way before
\nit was the American Way.
\nFor the color of music\u2019s the color of God:
\nthe color of his quartet!
\nSo I hold no truck with movie stars,
\nbut I play the clarinet.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAl Ortolani<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCAMDEN COUNTY RAIN
\n 
\nMy grandfather was born during a slow rain in the Ozarks.
\nI never knew him. I can only imagine
\nthe crows on the hillside, the acorns dropping
\n 
\nin the leaves. He died of pneumonia in West Port
\nin an attic bedroom with my mother and my grandmother
\nnear enough to hear his last breath. He was out of reach to me,
\n 
\nunless you count my uncles, who said that they could see him
\nwhen I turned my head. As a boy, I thought this made me special,
\nlike somehow, I kept him alive in my mannerisms
\n 
\nas if he were speaking through me to the family he\u2019d left behind.
\nOften when I needed advice, a grandfather would have helped,
\nsomeone to say something wise, something beyond the years
\n 
\nI was living. I listened especially to the slow rain in November
\nafter baseball season and when it was too cold for fishing.
\nI had seen his picture in black and white, in one he\u2019s smiling
\n 
\nin his baseball uniform, the other he\u2019s behind a string of fish.
\nSo, I knew this little bit about him. As to what his brothers had seen,
\nI keep turning my head in crazy angles in the mirror.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nky perraun<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nLOST DAYS
\n 
\nDays lost to deep dreams, sleep stealing hours
\nand motivation. Sedated, I am kind and thoughtful.
\nYou don\u2019t want to see that other side of me, believing
\nill of all and frightened into aggression. No, the shots
\nand pills smooth my edges like river stones, the ones
\nwe were given in the healing circle, where I prayed
\nand placed tobacco at the base of a tree. Another modality.
\nAnother complement to the arsenal of chemistry
\nunleashed on my disease. Am I a warrior or survivor?
\nOr a fairy tale character, awaiting your kiss? I smudge
\nand sing softly, so as not to wake myself. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEmalisa Rose<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nBETWEEN THE SNACK AND THE SODA MACHINES
\n 
\n“They\u2019re for bad girls,” she said.
\n“Those with vaginas stretched out
\nby the penis, no longer virgins
\nlike you are.” I still hear her voice
\nwith her old country accent as
\nI put in my panties those maxi-pad
\nblocks, the fear of a tampon instilled
\nby her. Today at the Port, between
\nthe snack and the soda machines for
\na buck twenty-nine, those tampons
\nthe gal with the multi-striped hair
\nbought, then entered the toilet stall
\nas I cringed at the thought of her
\nshoving those hard cardboard sticks
\ninto her twat, while hearing the voice
\nof my Great Aunt Paulina.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWilliam James Rosser<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSAPPHIRES AND EMERALDS
\n 
\nShe poses Ireland.
\nCheap flights and hotel-stays, short
\nforays past The Pale’s border
\nfor ten days in quaint Waterford and
\nWexford county towns:
\nDublin Pubs.
\n 
\nWinter\u2019s first snowflake-
\nflurries are falling, swelling
\nbig words: bards’ words sung, fired
\nEire-side for her fiftieth name day
\non Liffey\u2019s banks come
\nSaint Patrick\u2019s.
\n 
\nI\u2019ll hasten to learn
\nstanzas of Finian verse.
\nRead Banville, Beckett, Heaney.
\nSlip in a page or three of poppy
\nand prolific Maeve
\nBinchey\u2019s verbs.
\n 
\nI\u2019ll need stone cut, sized,
\nsapphire set: Mozambique sky-
\nblue to glint off her green eyes
\nfrom glare over the clover \u2019top the
\ncracked Cliffs of Moher,
\nCounty Clare \u2013 I declare!
\n 
\nWhat a green pipedream,
\nTo think she, me, on the shores
\nof the Irish Sea, across
\nthe straights from Cardigan Bay,
\nshooting neat shots of
\nGalway Pipe,
\n 
\nmy dove not paying
\nfor all as she\u2019s done before
\nwithout malice, lording, or
\nsliding me some bill due for my life.
\nJust to walk one time
\nWicklow\u2019s moors.
\n 
\nI\u2019ve walked McCann\u2019s high-
\nwire long enough while the great
\nworld span on through the famines
\nof my own making and her near force-
\nfeeding me leek broth,
\npotatoes,
\n 
\nand the chicken stock
\nI could swallow on cold days
\nwhen I saw the tunnel\u2019s light
\ngrowing fast as Angie\u2019s stacked ashes \u2013
\nI\u2019d mine sapphires while
\nEmeralds herald her.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEd Ruzicka<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCELLOPHANE
\nFor Russ and Carolyn Levy<\/i>
\n 
\nOver seared tuna salad, trout meuniere etc
\nwe gleefully beheld the TV image
\nof Kamala\u2019s stage-glow as she braced
\nTim Walz\u2019s wrist, held that aloft.
\n 
\nThey told us that David is done
\nwith his third round of chemo.
\nI let them know how quick my cousin went
\nafter he got brushed by an F-series pick up.
\nFlown down into gravel, sowthistle, crushed
\nsoda cans, burdock, cellophane, chickweed
\nand was gone before EMS even
\nrolled him onto the stretcher.
\n 
\nTogether with wine, in the face
\nof everything, we laughed and laughed
\nthe way no one in Gaza laughs anymore.
\nWe were so God damn tired
\nof holding our breaths
\nfor eight years and ready to take
\nany scrap of hope we could get.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClaire Scott<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nA SECRET CHORD
\nAfter Hallelujah<\/i> by Leonard Cohen
\n 
\nHow did you do it, David
\nplay that secret chord
\nI can\u2019t find the right combination
\nof notes or numbers
\nprayers or chants or passwords
\nmaybe god is a bit deaf
\nor deep in dementia
\nor maybe he turned away long ago
\nwhen I stopped believing
\nin Santa Claus, the tooth fairy,
\nalong with that silly rabbit
\nbut by mistake I threw
\ngod into the mix
\n 
\nLeaving a spirit wound
\nthat hasn\u2019t healed
\nI need your help, David
\nI am working my way through
\nthe declensions of grief
\nafter a rough diagnosis
\nstuck on anger like br\u2019er rabbit
\nstuck to the tar baby
\ntrying to move toward bargaining
\nlight years from acceptance
\nyet I am hopelessly hopeful
\nthat one day I will please the Lord
\nand he will still my unquiet mind
\nDavid, play that chord again
\nthis time for me<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nKarlo Sevilla<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nNEXT CUP OF COFFEE
\n  
\nYou hurried, but not without indulging
\nin a half-cup of black coffee.
\nYou would have finished it but you must have heard me
\nstirring awake.
\nYou hurried, the door left ajar.
\n  
\nI thought it was just one of those brief outbursts
\nof abandonment (a few laden with reasons
\nI barely understood).
\nYou always returned before midnight.
\nWhen I had more luck, before dusk.
\n  
\nBut this last time, your cup that I washed
\nremained prone on the rack overnight.
\nNow it\u2019s been a year.
\n(Or two? Or three?)
\n  
\nNo. I won\u2019t feign ignorance or forgetfulness:
\nIt\u2019s been two years, one month, four days and counting.
\nJust come back. The door remains ajar.
\n  
\nAnd no need to say \u201csorry.\u201d You know that word\u2019s
\na stranger to me, and I\u2019ve been awkward
\nat self-introductions ever since my self
\ndisappeared into you.
\n 
\nJust pick up your long-forsaken cup on the rack.
\nLet me brew you another round of coffee.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJulie Standig<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nI DIDN\u2019T TAKE ANY
\nDIAZEPAM THIS TIME
\n 
\nI did when he ran the first time,
\nbut it didn\u2019t help one bit.
\nKen went to sleep early
\nI stayed up late
\nI only had two pills
\n(for a medical procedure)
\nand they didn\u2019t work\u2014
\nnot when I took one alone\u2014
\nnot one when I washed
\nthe other down with Drambuie.
\nOf course, I never considered
\na second run could occur.
\nTotally missed the concept
\nof turning those so-called tourists
\nfrom the Capitol insurrection
\ninto saints and heroes.
\nAs for the Hendricks
\nI consumed through election night\u2014
\nyou know it didn\u2019t help,
\ndidn\u2019t make me consider
\nit won\u2019t be so bad.
\nMusk and Ramaswamy will lead
\nthe new Department
\nof Government Efficiency.
\nBobby will take the fluoride
\nout of the water\u2014
\nso along with all the new books
\nthat will be banned
\nour kids\u2019 teeth will rot,
\nand polio may return to find them.
\nAs for me in my senior years,
\nI have no worries about Dr Oz
\nor my Medicare\u2014he promised
\nto cure diabetes,
\nregulate my blood sugar,
\nin two weeks time.
\nYes, no need for diazapam,
\nit doesn\u2019t help.
\nAnd I\u2019ll feel even better
\nwhen I finish that bottle
\nof Gentleman Jack.
\n 
\n 
\nYOU CAN PICK THEM OUT AS
\nTHEY PASS YOU ON THE STREET
\n 
\nThe Poets\u2014that\u2019s who.
\nThere\u2019s a certain look.
\nAlways a long funky scarf,
\nnecks wrapped at least once.
\nThe pants are straight-legged,
\njeans, cords, linen in summer.
\nI like to focus on shoes,
\n(a genetic problem of mine)
\nwing-tipped\u2014maybe,
\ngood leather\u2014definitely,
\nankle boots and sandals.
\nPoets like their comfort.
\n 
\nIt\u2019s the arbitrary-on-purpose look,
\nperhaps tousled hair,
\nmakeup natural-on-purpose
\nor sometimes bold,
\nlike Berry Noir.
\n 
\nComposure is far from readable,
\nand often masks
\nwhat they don\u2019t want you to see.
\nRead their poems for that.
\nBuy their books for God\u2019s sake.
\n 
\nYears ago, my husband,
\nthe structural engineer,
\nbelonged to the Poets Club.
\nat Lehigh University.
\nI thought it was to impress me.
\nNot exactly.
\n 
\nPiss
\nOn
\nEverything
\nTomorrow\u2019s
\nSaturday.
\n 
\nApparently, that works too. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Sweet<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nONE FOR ALL THE FUTURE SUICIDES
\n 
\ntells her you are never
\nholier than when you are down
\non all fours<\/i>
\n 
\nkisses her breasts and then
\nasks her to sing and
\nthen measures the distance between
\nhis clenched fist and the
\n       endless sky
\n 
\n       closes his eyes
\n 
\ndreams like a drowning man
\ndiscovering fire<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nWHEN I HEARD THE LEARN\u00c8D POET
\n 
\nWhen I heard the learn\u00e8d poet saying
\nnothing of any consequence,
\nI decided to give him a second chance
\nand stay for the question-and-answer.
\n 
\nBut he dodged all of the meaningful questions
\nwith evasive maneuvers honed to perfection
\nof a kind acquired solely
\nthrough the most intense study
\nof the lives of successful toads.
\n 
\nWhen I heard the award-winning poet,
\nat the last I was left with one question:
\n 
\nPrudence, Cowardice, or Incompetence?
\n 
\nThat was a lifetime ago.
\n 
\nAfter years in the Ivies
\nI can safely report that
\nthe answer was:
\n 
\nAll Three.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan Thornton<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFOR MARTHA, JANUARY 16, 2025
\n 
\nThe reached for
\ncanister suddenly
\nunknown. This
\ncounter\u2013Why
\nhere? The dog\u2019s
\nears on alert,
\nhis distant whine.
\nDid I close the . . .
\nA breath as knees
\nfail, floor
\nrises. Rush
\nof light as heart
\nstops and
\naway.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRichard Weaver<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nROCK RAT HAS ROLLED OUT
\n 
\nin the bigger cities, those with unsustainable populations and a deaf-by-decibels wish. Loudest is the new black hole of sound. Not Disaster Area, planet destroying loud, or Kiss, Manowar, Gallows, Leftfield, Motorhead, Deep Purple, The Who, Led Zeppelin eardrum denting loud. All Guinness record holders and gate-crashing worthy. Rock Rat\u2019s loud ranges from 200 Hz to 90 kHz. It\u2019s call kilohertz after-all. Ultrasound. Only dolphins and bats hear better. Very young humans can hang near 20 kHz. But not always. To keep teenagers from gathering in public squares, the French once played sounds only young ears could hear, which created headcheese and dissing, or headaches and dizziness. Dogs and cats were none too happy either. But French rats, the ones who boarded ships from Norway to see and conquer the world, are amused by local buzz, and have risen from the sewers in search of croissants and baguettes. They may be modern survivors, ancient descendants of those who presence meant Black Plague. Now, they stroll the parks like tourists, wearing headphones, or earbuds. The more daring go wireless. None give a fig about the EU underground traps. Most have a better tan than a certain orange-bronzed inflatable President ex-President now President-elect.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSharon Whitehill<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nSCORCH MARKS LIKE SCARS
\n 
\nAll my life, I\u2019ve left damage behind,
\nscorch marks I hide but can never erase.
\n 
\nNo way to disguise the burn in the carpet
\nout on my lanai, its synthetic fibers
\n 
\nblackened by candles I meditate with
\nbut placed on a pie tin too thin for such heat,
\n 
\nor the charred cement floor inside the garage,
\nwhere, avoiding the cold, I set fire to trash.
\n 
\nNo less blemished, the children I scorched
\nwith flare-ups of smoldering anger:
\n 
\nfoisting on them the burning ancestral brand
\nthat had scarred generations before us
\n 
\nand remains as stigmata today\u2014
\nwhen all we can do is fight fire with fire.
\n 
\n 
\nUPON THE LOSS OF HER BODY PARTS
\nAfter Robert Herrick, “Upon the Loss of His Mistress<\/i>”
\n 
\nI have lost, and lately, these
\nparts that once performed with ease:
\n 
\nthe keenness of my listening gear
\nthrough damage to my middle ear;
\n 
\nmy clarity of vision, browned
\nby retinas no longer sound;
\n 
\nthe mobility of knees and hips;
\nthe pigment of my hair and lips
\n 
\nblooming now upon my skin
\nin patches of rough melanin.
\n 
\nTwo organ systems I don\u2019t<\/i> miss,
\nwhich in their day provided bliss
\n 
\nfor many an eager swain and beau:
\nthose nuisance bits above, below.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nElana Wolff<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nFISHING WITH DB
\n 
\nDown we went with a one-two-three
\nto the riverbank
\nand sat. Hooks & lines, our poles,
\n 
\na bucket of bait.
\nDB didn\u2019t have much to say, but his fingers
\nwere pretty nimble & he hooked the worms
\n 
\nfor us both. I felt his breath, the nearness.
\nMaybe it was the worms,
\nthe muddy riverbank\u2014
\n 
\nsomething stank. We sat there at the water\u2019s edge,
\nholding our poles between our knees,
\nwaiting in the breeze
\n 
\n         for a fish. Pert as punctuation.
\nI looked at him out of the side of my eye,
\nhis forelock swung & caught the sun.
\n 
\nThe hair on his arm was blond, on his shin
\nand thigh a powdery-white.
\nI saw my darker leg-hair then
\n 
\nand wanted madly to hide it,
\ncrossed my legs and leaned on my knees,
\nwhich made it hard to hold the pole.
\n 
\nDragonflies were skimming the river, shimmering
\npink, a bluish-green. So beautiful, I wrote in a poem,
\nI forgot my leg-hair and DB\u2019s, the stink.
\n 
\nIn that rendition, he and I felt a simultaneous tug.
\nWe caught a fish together and the bone of our strangeness
\nbroke. Returning to that version, I had to revise:
\n 
\nWe didn\u2019t catch a fish together, and never met up again.
\nThat moment of awakening to differences, and hair,
\nis hyped, like adolescence, to im\/perfection. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nHANDS DOWN
\n 
\nDarkness tripped by a toggle
\nonly a shaking hand can flip,
\nfingers splayed, each wanting
\nto run away to a fork, a spoon,
\na cookie jar, anything but lowering
\nthe light to the floor and watching
\nit creep through the crack beneath
\nthe door, taking with it all that shines,
\nsun, moon, copper pennies.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nSusan J. Wurtzburg<\/a><\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nTHE GOLDEN HOUR
\n 
\nDry sherry, golden-hued sip,
\ntime\u2019s bonds slip. Sweetness,
\nmy grandmother\u2019s tipple,
\nsmooth as the setting sun
\nbeyond the balcony
\nwhere we would sit.
\n 
\nTawny colored, cask aged,
\ncrystal caged. Oaked tail
\nswishes tongue, sentences
\nsparked by my mother\u2019s mum,
\na centenarian\u2014her final flight
\ntoasted by me in golden light.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nArtists’ Bios:<\/strong>
\n 
\n 
\nCatherine Arra<\/a><\/strong\/> lives in the Hudson Valley of upstate New York, where she teaches part-time, and facilitates local writing groups. She is the author of four full-length poetry collections and four chapbooks. Recent work appears in San Pedro River Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Origami Poems Project, Stone Circle Review, Unleashed Lit., The Ekphrastic Review and Eclectica Magazine. Find her at www.catherinearra.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nShalmi Barman<\/a><\/strong>, originally from Calcutta, India, is at present a PhD candidate in English at the University of Virginia where she is writing a dissertation on class and labor in Victorian fiction. Her poetry has been, or will be, featured in Snakeskin, The Crank<\/i>, and Blue Unicorn<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCarole Bernstein<\/a><\/strong> is the author of the poetry collections Buried Alive: A To-Do List<\/I> and Familiar<\/i> (both Hanging Loose Press) and And Stepped Away from the Circle<\/i> (Sow\u2019s Ear Press). Her poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Antioch Review, Apiary, Chelsea, Paterson Literary Review, Poetry, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Yale Review<\/i>, and elsewhere. Work is forthcoming in the Hanging Loose 60th Anniversary<\/i> anthology and in Keystone: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania<\/i> (Penn State University Press).<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF.S. Blake<\/a><\/strong> is a Bronze Star decorated U.S. Army Veteran and Pushcart Prize nominated poet. He is a published photographer, traveler, advanced SCUBA diver, philanthropist, entrepreneur, and proud husband and father. He has poems published or forthcoming in O-Dark-Thirty, As you Were: The Military Review, The Wrath-Bearing Tree<\/i>, and Line of Advance<\/i>. His first chapbook, Terminal Leave<\/i>, is available from Finishing Line Press. His poetry career began during his sister\u2019s wedding.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRose Mary Boehm<\/a><\/strong>, a German-born UK national, lives and works in Lima, Peru. She is the author of two novels and eight poetry collections; her work has been widely published in US poetry journals.www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com\/<\/a><\/a><\/p>\n

Isabelle Bohl<\/a><\/strong> is a retired teacher who began publishing her poetry in the past year. So far, her poems have appeared\u2013or are forthcoming\u2013in Quartet, The Rye Whiskey Review, Glassworks<\/i>, and anthologies. Her poem \u201cSome Night, When Thoughts of Tomorrow Narrow, I Choose to Dream of Her\u201d was nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize by the editors of Quartet. She lives in the northern Adirondak mountains in New York.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nLaura Buxbaum<\/a><\/strong> is a re-emerging poet at 66, living in Maine. In addition to her day job at a nonprofit, Laura writes poetry and fiction and juggles a few too many other pursuits. She raises goats, makes cheese, cultivates a much-too-large garden, and runs, hikes, skis, sings, and plays the cello. Her poem “Accidental Poetry” can be seen in the September 2024 edition of <\/i>Thimble Literary Magazine.<\/i><\/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, Valparaiso, Rattle, ONE ART<\/i>, and As It Ought to Be<\/i>. Sarah\u2019s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and she is a finalist for the 2023 John Ridland Poetry Prize. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave<\/i>, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.<\/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 books of poetry are Foggy Dog<\/i> and Random Saints<\/i>. He appreciates wagging tails and dog-eared pages. His website is joecottonwood.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nTony Dawson<\/a><\/strong> is an Ancient Brit who\u2019s been living in Seville since 1989. He took up writing during the pandemic and has published three small collections of poetry: Afterthoughts<\/i> ISBN 9788119 228348, reviewed: london-grip-poetry-review-tony-dawson<\/a> Musings<\/i> ISBN 97819115 819666, reviewed: london-grip-poetry-review-tony-dawson2<\/a> and Reflections in a Dirty Mirror<\/i> ISBN 9781915819949 reviewed: london-grip-poetry-review-tony-dawson3<\/a> as well as a selection of flash fiction, Curiouser and Curiouser<\/i> ISBN 9788119 654932.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Delaney<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s publications include Waypoints<\/i> (2017), a collection of place poems, Twenty Questions<\/i> (2019), a chapbook, Delicate Arch<\/i> (2022), poems and photographs of national parks and monuments, and Gal\u00e1pagos<\/i> (2023), a collaborative chapbook of his son Andrew\u2019s photographs and his poems. Nile<\/i>, a chapbook of poems and photographs about Egypt, appeared in May 2024. He lives in Port Townsend, WA.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Dellabough<\/a><\/strong> is a poet and editor with a master\u2019s degree from UC Berkeley School of Journalism. Her debut collection, Double Helix<\/i> (2022), includes a Pushcart Prize-nominated poem. Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Gyroscope, Yellow Arrow, Stoneboat, Halfway Down the Stairs, Mom Egg Review, Blue Unicorn, Negative Capability<\/i>, and other publications and anthologies. A founding partner at Lark Productions: A Book Company, she recently retired as Projects Director, Publishers Marketplace\/Publishers Lunch.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nClive Donovan<\/a><\/strong> has three poetry collections, The Taste of Glass<\/i> [Cinnamon Press 2021], Wound Up With Love<\/i> [Lapwing 2022] and Movement of People<\/i> [Dempsey&Windle 2024] and is published in a wide variety of magazines including Acumen, Agenda, Crannog, Popshot, Prole, Rats Ass Review and Stand. He lives in Totnes, Devon, UK. He was a Pushcart and Forward Prize nominee for 2022\u2019s best individual poems.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nThomas J. Erickson<\/a><\/strong> is an attorney in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where he is a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets. His fifth book of poems “Cutting the Dusk in Half” (Bent Paddle Press, 2022) was awarded second place in the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets 2022 Chapbook Contest.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nA recent octogenarian, Vern Fein<\/a><\/strong> has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces in over 100 different sites. A few are: Gyroscope Review, Young Raven\u2019s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River & South Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, and Rat’s Ass Review. His second poetry book\u2014REFLECTION ON DOTS\u2014was released late last year.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nHarrison Fisher<\/a><\/strong> has published twelve collections of poems since 1977, four of them book-length: Blank Like Me, Curtains for You, UHFO<\/i>, and, most recently, Poematics of the Hyperbloody Real<\/i>. In 2025, he has new poems coming in All Existing, Amsterdam Review, The Basilisk Tree, Chewers and Masticadores, the engine(idling, The Kleksograph, and Misfitmagazine.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMeg Freer<\/a><\/strong> grew up in Missoula, Montana, studied in Minnesota and New Jersey, and now lives in Ontario. Her photos, prose and poems have won awards and have been published in journals such as Ruminate, Eastern Iowa Review, Phoebe<\/i>, and Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i>. She has co-authored a poetry chapbook, Serve the Sorrowing World with Joy<\/i> (Woodpecker Lane Press, 2020) as well as two other chapbooks. She enjoys being active outdoors year-round.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGerald Friedman<\/a><\/strong> grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio, and now teaches math and physics in northern New Mexico. His poems have appeared in various journals, recently Cattails, As It Ought To Be<\/i>, and Door is a Jar<\/i>, and his translations from Antonio Machado have appeared in Rhino, Ezra, Dialogist<\/i>, and Poet Lore<\/i>. You can read more of his work at https:\/\/jerryfriedman.wixsite.com\/my-site-2<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Grey<\/a><\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, \u201cSubject Matters\u201d,\u201d Between Two Fires\u201d and \u201cCovert\u201d are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nGary Grossman<\/a><\/strong> enjoys fishing, gardening, and running. His work appears in 60+ literary reviews and has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Pushcart, and Best of the Net. Gary\u2019s poetry books Lyrical Years<\/i> (2023, Kelsay Press), and What I Meant to Say Was<\/i>\u2026 (2023, Impspired Press) and his 2023 graphic memoir My Life in Fish<\/i>\u2026 all are available from Amazon.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nColleen S. Harris<\/a><\/strong> earned her MFA in Writing from Spalding University. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry collections include The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, forthcoming), Babylon Songs (First Bite Press, forthcoming), These Terrible Sacraments (Bellowing Ark, 2010; Doubleback, 2019), The Kentucky Vein (Punkin House, 2011), God in My Throat: The Lilith Poems (Bellowing Ark, 2009), and chapbooks That Reckless Sound and Some Assembly Required (Pork Belly Press, 2014). <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBefore his current exile in Tennessee, New Yorker David M. Harris<\/a><\/strong>‘s first career was in book publishing, as an editor, agent, and copyeditor. He also worked for a while in film production before getting his MFA and starting a career teaching college English. His poetry has appeared in various journals. His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror<\/i>, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2013. He is also the author of Democracy and Other Problems<\/i>, an essay collection; Bill, the Galactic Hero: the Final Incoherent Adventure<\/i> (a novel with Harry Harrison); numerous magazine articles; several published short stories; and two produced screenplays.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nErin Hay<\/a><\/strong> is a poet living in Santa Cruz, California. She has been previously published in the Rat\u2019s Ass Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAnglo-Danish by birth but Bahamian by upbringing, Robin Helweg-Larsen<\/a><\/strong> has lived and worked in the Bahamas (bank clerk), Denmark (factories and janitorial), Canada (prison guard, bookstore owner), Australia (restaurant work), USA (25 years of developing and teaching business simulations around the world). Now working on his poetry at formalverse.com<\/a><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nF.D. Jackson<\/a><\/strong> lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. When she is not reading or writing, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F.D.’s works have appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Third Wednesday, Rat’s Ass Review, FERAL<\/i> and others.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMichael Kfoury<\/a><\/strong> is a graduate of Suffolk University whose poems have appeared in Ink In Thirds, Blue Lake Review, and October Hill. An old soul, Michael loves classic rock, classic literature, and classic films. Often, his attention is divided between being engrossed with the night\u2019s Humphrey Bogart screening and revising his writing. Finally, as a New Deal Nerd, Michael chronically studies the socio-economic and environmental reforms of 1930s America.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBebe Tomlin Lefkoff<\/a><\/strong> lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee with her husband, son, and a mini-Aussie named Blue. Her books are available on Amazon under the pen name Kandeis Lynne. She is also available at bebelefkoff.bsky.social<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nFay L. Loomis<\/a><\/strong> leads a quiet life in the woods in Kerhonkson, New York. Member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and the Rat’s Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose appear in numerous publications, including five poetry anthologies. Sunlit Wildness<\/i> (Origami Poems Project, 2024) is her first chapbook. Fay is a nominee for the 2024 Pushcart Prize.<\/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, Your Daily Poem, 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 tamaramadisonpoetry.com<\/a>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nBrian McAllister<\/a><\/strong> is a retired professor of English literature. His work has previously appeared in The Rat’s Ass Review<\/i>, as well as Ancient Paths, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily<\/i>, and others. He lives and writes in rural Georgia.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nMike Mesterton-Gibbons<\/a><\/strong> is a Professor Emeritus at Florida State University who has now 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>\u2019s most recent book, Monkey Island<\/i>, was published by redbat books. His first book, Heaven of the Moment<\/i>, was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award in Poetry. He has received the C. Hamilton Bailey Fellowship from Literary Arts and his work has appeared in numerous journals, including the Beloit Poetry Journal, Cimarron Review, Poetry Northwest<\/i>, and Rhino<\/i>. He leads poetry discussion groups for Soapstone, teaches as an Associate Fellow for the Attic Institute, and is a guest editor for the Comstock Review<\/i>.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJames B. Nicola<\/a><\/strong>\u2019s latest of eight full-length poetry collections are Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists,<\/i> and Natural Tendencies<\/i>. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience<\/i> won a Choice<\/i> magazine award. A Yale graduate and returning contributor, he has received a Dana Literary Award, two Willow Review<\/i> awards, Storyteller’s<\/i> People’s Choice magazine award, one Best of Net, one Rhysling, and eleven Pushcart nominations\u2014for which he feels both stunned and grateful.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nAl Ortolani<\/a><\/strong> is a winner of the Rattle Chapbook Prize and has been featured in Garrison Keillor\u2019s Writer\u2019s Almanac, Ted Kooser\u2019s American Life in Poetry, and George Bilgere\u2019s Poetry Town. In 2024 he was the recipient of the Bill Hickok Humor Award from I-70 Review. Currently, he\u2019s a contributing poetry editor to the Chiron Review.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nky perraun<\/a><\/strong> (she\/her\/they) is a disabled (schizophrenia, hearing impaired), poet living on Treaty 6 Territory. She is the author of Miraculous Sickness<\/i> (At Bay Press, 2021), finalist for the Stephan G. Stephansson Poetry and High Plains First Book Awards. Their work has most recently been accepted by Prairie Journal Online,<\/i> and Pleiades.<\/i><\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWhen not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose<\/a><\/strong> enjoys crafting and drawing. She volunteers in animal rescue tending to cat colonies in the neighborhood. She walks with a birding group on weekends. Her works has appeared in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Rat’s Ass Review, The Rye Whiskey Review and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is “Ten random wrens,” published by Maverick Duck Press. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nWilliam James Rosser<\/a><\/strong> is a poet and wine sommelier from Texas. He studied journalism and literature at university, has lived and traveled throughout North America and Europe, and spent over two decades working in the wine and spirits industry. Though guided by Formalists, Rosser aligns more closely with New Criticism and lyric verse. His poetic influences include Robert Penn Warren, Archibald MacLeish, Elizabeth Bishop, Robert Hass and Sidney Lanier. He writes from Tulsa, Oklahoma. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nEd Ruzicka<\/a><\/strong> has published three full-length books of poetry, most recently, “Squalls” (Kelsey Press, 2024). Ed\u2019s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, the Chicago Literary Review, Rattle, Canary and have received Pushcart nominations. Ed, who is also the president of the Poetry Society of Louisiana, lives with his wife, Renee, in Baton Rouge, LA.<\/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 
\nKarlo Sevilla<\/a><\/strong> is the author of seven poetry books, and one of the most recent is the chapbook \u201cRecumbent\u201d (8Letters Bookstore and Publishing, 2023). Shortlisted for the 2021 Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition, his poems appear in Philippines Graphic, Philippines Free Press, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, Porch Litmag, TPT Magazine<\/i>, and elsewhere. He is a 2024 International Fellow of the International Human Rights Art Movement (IHRAM) for his political poetry.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJulie Standig<\/a><\/strong> writes her poems while taking trains, walking on tow paths and over a large cup of coffee mid-morning. She rarely snags a poem on first draft and is definitely her worst critic. But she has learned the art of revision (after twenty years) and no longer hesitates to kill her darlings. Few things satisfy more that gutting an old poem to create something better. (And a good bourbon)<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nJohn Sweet<\/a><\/strong> sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE\u2019S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nDan Thompson<\/a><\/strong> (PhD) is a U.S. Army veteran and former editor and professor whose work has been published in scholarly as well as literary journals (including, most recently, the autumn issues of Canary<\/i> and Rat\u2019s Ass Review<\/i>). In an earlier life, he worked as a music producer for educational videos.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nPoems by Susan Thornton<\/a><\/strong> are prompted by her daily life, drawn from reading, enriched by imagination. She is grateful to live and work in Binghamton New York where she has been employed as an academic editor, a technical writer, and a high school French instructor. Words, always words, and often in another language. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nUntil recently, Richard Weaver<\/a><\/strong> has been the writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub in Baltimore. He has flipped coastlines. Some of his other pubs Include: OffCourse, Misfit Mag, Granfalloon, Burningword LJ, Slippery Elm, Loch Raven review, Spank the carp, and Magnolia Review. He\u2019s the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press, 1992), and wrote the libretto for a symphony, Of Sea and Stars (2005). He was one of the founders of the Black Warrior Review and its Poetry Editor for the first four years. He\u2019s pleased the BWR is now 50 years old. Recently, his 220th prose poem was accepted.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nA former English professor at Grand Valley State University in Michigan, Sharon Whitehill<\/a><\/strong> has retired to Port Charlotte, Florida. Here she’s not only published poems in various literary magazines, but also a full collection and four chapbooks. Her last chapbook, THIS SAD AND TENDER TIME has just appeared (Kelsay Books, December 2023); PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in 2025. <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nCover Artist Bill Wolak<\/a><\/strong> is a poet, collage artist, and photographer who has just published his eighteenth book of poetry entitled All the Wind\u2019s Unfinished Kisses with Ekstasis Editions. His collages and photographs have appeared recently in the 2024 Dirty Show in Detroit, the 2024 Rochester Erotic Arts Festival, the 2020 International Festival of Erotic Arts (Chile), the 2020 Seattle Erotic Art Festival, the 2018 Montreal Erotic Art Festival, and Naked in New Hope 2018. He was a featured artist in the book Best of Erotic Art (London, 2022). <\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nElana Wolff<\/a><\/strong> lives and works in Ontario, Canada. Her writing is widely published in Canada and internationally\u2014recently in The Antigonish Review, Arc Poetry Magazine, Best Canadian Poetry 2024, Juniper, Prairie Fire, Pinhole Poetry<\/i>, among others. Her cross-genre Kafka-quest work, Faithfully Seeking Franz<\/i> (Guernica Editions 2023), is the recipient of the 2024 Canadian Jewish Literary Award in the category of Jewish Thought and Culture.<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\nRobin Wright<\/a><\/strong> lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Subliminal Surgery, One Art, Loch Raven Review, Panoply, Rat\u2019s Ass Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, Spank the Carp, The New Verse News<\/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 
\nSusan J. Wurtzburg<\/a><\/strong> has won or placed in several poetry competitions. She was a Community Poet in a 2023 semester-long Poetry Workshop, Westminster College, Salt Lake City. Wurtzburg is a Commissioned Artist in Sidewalk Poetry: Senses of Salt Lake City,<\/i> 2024, and an Associate Poetry Editor at Poets Reading the News.<\/i> Her book, Ravenous Words<\/i>, with Lisa Lucas will appear in spring, 2025. Webpage: susanwurtzburg.com<\/a>.
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n 
\n <\/p>\n

\nBack to Top<\/a>
\n 
\n 
\n 
\nEdited by Roderick Bates
\n 
\nRAT\u2019S ASS REVIEW SPRING-SUMMER ISSUE 2025 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<\/div>\n

 
\n 
\n 
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