Issue 24 Poetry
by Heather Cox
I would tell you the story of the boy who bled
out in the meadow, but we call them fields.
How his left lung functioned like an accordion
collapsing, an accordion with a hole for a mouth
by Leisha Douglas
Goats wail from rocky pastures.
Small white trucks pull themselves up shoestring roads.
Women in wide-brimmed straw hats and sun-faded dresses stroll
under the devouring sun.
Where blue births itself,
by Neal Kitterlin
Workshop your job out of existence and trickle down, gain momentum, lose hope. Despair takes on the smell of burnt coffee, the leonine moment when antelopes no longer present a challenge. Which brings me to zoos — is there a happier prison you can think of outside of your hair, entangled in knots worked by design or inertia?
by Jenny Krueger
I was born in a beige hospital
in a room with off-white walls and taupe trim
that took the light of fluorescent bulbs
and lobbed it back again as almond meal.
I was raised in a compost bin
with banana-peel hair and black fingernails.
by Andrew Payton
The winter I spent in the Sierra foothills, I baked bread every day.
Each night I stone-ground the berries, mixed in honey, water, yeast,
and left the bowl to rise on the hearth. I stoked the fire with pine.
HOW THEY GET YOU
by Sam Pink
Yesterday I was walking around Pilsen Neighborhood, in Chicago, and I went beneath a small overpass. There were crowns graffiti’d upside down on the walls and a man sleeping on the slope of the overpass’s underside, with four milk jugs lined up him, and a shopping cart. On the other side of the overpass, the bushes along the sidewalk started shaking.