Poetry - Year II - Number 8 - July 2017

CHASMBy Lisa Brognano     CHASMHe yells to her overBig bank of hills andSees nothing but bluntBrown banks and a snakeRiver below.She hears Tom and fromHer ledge moves a little,Sees the river and some grass.He strains and...

THE WIDOW’S SONBy Sandra Kolankiewicz  Aunt Ann Even nurses feared her swollen body.The neighbors brought balloonsand left quickly.Each night her husband strolled through the automatic doors,slapping a check book against his palm.She lost her hair and...

WITH HERBy Judah Cricelli  Three is few,One is two, Her crease, and hue,The halogen flickers when I amWith her.Drips with dew,Mud-freckled shoe,Scuffed knees, hers too, The playground goes silent when I am With her. Carpet is soft, An ocean of...

BREATHINGBy Bryan McCormack    BreathingThe father’s breathing steadiedto a light,sputtering hum.Outside his door, the sonlistened carefully, ingesting the hum’svibrations, producing another sputterin his eardrums.It was like this before, when the son was a boy,and it continues...

Poetry by SERGEY CHERNYSHEVTranslated by Boris Kokotov  Sound Flesh flickers: smoke, a man,an anthill. Sound, blunt and hollow,still palpitates  inside the frozen headand wags its tail -- green, red, and yellow. It’s empty. With a wanton tonguehanging...

THE PROPAGATIONBy Mark Young The Mackerel Fish school whenthe moon is out. Be-fore. Separate. Atvarious levels withdisparate meanings.States of grace. Wait-ing for the cast of lightacross the surface of the water. On app-earance drawn to it.Coalesce, luminescent.In the...

HIGH PLACE PHENOMENONBy Hailey Cragun High Place Phenomenon Along the red cliff sidewith staggering ten story dropswe cling to a chain, silver and black,its mark worn into the stone. The August sun warms the sandstonewhen my hand,...

A SIMPLE PROPOSITIONBy Evyn McGraw  WakeWith twisting muscles I whippedMy body into shape,I ran like a machine,Pumping down the pavement through the dead winter wood,When water’s whisper hissedMy name. The call led me off the path,Into...

HOMAGE TO ORWELLBy Tomas Sanchez Hidalgo Homage to Orwell,           surrounded by slot machines,in the main hall(perhaps the Tanjiers?)by the penultimateof our national heroes,perfect for adults and children,proud to bethe gear lever in Europe,respecting the margin for...

INSTINCTBy Chase Spruiell instinct I look a dog dead in the eye.He squeaks. He squirms. But he stays where he is.Like the infantry. Like the front line. Stupid, a follower. Frozen, unable to thinkor move. Petrified.Instinctually stuck.An empty sack of fur.He knows...