Issue 26 Poetry
In the field with the god
by Laura Donnelly
My mother stretched a phone cord through
the field where I was born, a coil
of potential energy to whip us back.
I study for the test of frenulum and capillary,
soft spot on a crown, ragdoll neck.
My hands are large, uncertain starfish.
The Saboteur’s Grandfather
by Amorak Huey
If when the questioners come for you
you’re watching Baywatch with the sound off,
not for the flesh
but for the sand,
the saltwater –
if they hold your lifetime against you,
your skills, your strong hands –
by Peter Leight
A flattened arch, curved filigree of girders and metal threads raised a little in the middle, not taking one side or the other, plunging its thick hands into the ground, wrist-deep, rooted in both sides, as if it needs to be plural.
A Mutter to Self
by Muriel Nelson
It’s that time when vine maples can’t tell if they’re red or green,
when your daylights match the sunset,
and you pace like a pigeon dropping blobs from your whiteout pen.
I was going through my things today when I found an avalanche down
in my sweaters. She looked so lonely so I asked her to dance, just this
once, for old time's sake, though I knew she would slip through
my arms like before, in those days when I used to leave my beard long
& have recurring dreams of thousands of collies licking
my face & arms.