January 2023 | poetry
dead man dear dead more than one dear dead bouquet
my own death in all your faces dear gone away
•
the radio scribbles out the silence silence erases the sound no answer is an answer
•
what do I want to say to you now that your time and my chance are past
no matter this page will be you will do
dear ear wish you were here
this circle is want
mama papa gone away come again another day
want only the sound of the wind
Ditta Baron Hoeber is an artist as well as a poet. Her poems have been published in a number of magazines including Noon, Gargoyle, the American Journal of Poetry, Juxtaprose, Pank, the American Poetry Review and Contemporary American Voices. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and her first book, Without You: A Poem And A Preface is forthcoming in 2023. Her photographs, drawings and book works have been exhibited nationally and have been acquired by several collections both in the US and in the UK. More of her work can be seen at dbhoeber.com.
January 2023 | poetry
For Maggie
These roses always rose from their roots—
but thorns—rootstock and scion—still carve flesh
and only thrive on a diet of blood.
Each spring we planted Peace. It came up blood.
Grandma damned the thorns and swore
these roses always rose from their roots.
Last spring, I laid Peace in the Earth—
She’s been fleeing the Nazis since 1939.
Nazi and rose throve on a diet of blood.
This September, zombie Heinrich Himmler came for her.
I pressed his flesh and bones into the Earth—
These Nazis always rose from their roots—
giving strange roses—red and yellow—black and white—
just thorns, really—but, enough to kill Grandma—
poisoned peaceless by a diet of blood—
I placed her in the earth too. Blood in blood—
Peace—failed xenograft—more zombies at the door—
these Nazis always rose from their roots.
Peace!?
b l o o d
g
o
l
d
ashes
ashes
we all fall
down
Joshua St. Claire
Joshua St. Claire is an accountant who works as a corporate controller in rural Pennsylvania. His poetry has been published in Mayfly, The Delmarva Review, ubu., and The Ghost City Review, among others. He is Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. His work was included in the 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology, and he is the winner of the 2022 Gerald Brady Memorial Senryu Award.
January 2023 | poetry
I was sure the long-abused-
by-climate bougainvillea dead
after years of pink tissue-paper blossoms
each winter, branches seeking light against
cold window glass in its corner. This year
all, all leaves were alitter on the floor
and the branches turned to brittle sticks.
My daughter begged a reprieve
with one more try, moving it from where
its waterings drained down to the soil
of a geranium, which lapped liquid up
and blooms. We added soil and planted
the stickety sticks that were left
into a bigger, water tight pot to keep
the draining moisture available, found a place
to catch a little sun without thorny branches
scratching stray passersby. Now tiny and
the silkiest of leaves appear,
thin slips of green,
fragile … tentative. They seem
so unlikely that I find it hard to believe
in them. I finger them in passing, touch
slender promise and remember all all
of the unlikely salvations strewn down
my many years … and again hope.
Carol Hamilton
Carol Hamilton has retired from teaching 2nd grade through graduate school in Connecticut, Indiana and Oklahoma, from storytelling and volunteer medical translating. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma and has published 19 books and chapbooks: children’s novels, legends and poetry. She has been nominated ten times for a Pushcart Prize. She has won a Southwest Book Award, Oklahoma Book Award, David Ray Poetry Prize, Byline Magazine literary awards in both short story and poetry, Warren Keith Poetry Award, Pegasus Award and a Chiron Review Chapbook Award.
January 2023 | poetry
Olives Keep Secrets
Green limbs, olive-heavy, on a bluff over a rich-blue sea,
hold the eye so the mind can focus, press the shutter,
record the moment in waves of chemistry, file it away in
labyrinths, while the blood flutters, seeks to drown
the waves, put them to rest, quiet the restless talk.
Fingers grasp the fruit tenderly, light enough to
keep bruises & oil at bay, firm enough to bring it
down in a low arc, nadir, up in high arc, apogee,
as the red, wet mouth opens to catch the prize,
a triumph of the tongue, all muscle & mobility.
Olives & sea soil, images & arcs, lips & tongues in
constant caress, continue the slow turn of machinery
down deep in genetic twists, to bare at harvest,
hope, like the hope high in the top branches of
the tree, hope in the pruned burning afterwards.
The lungs swell with salt air & green perfume,
a proud & satisfying moment, recorded or not, yet,
as morsels & moisture descend the throat, descend
pixelated avenues of remembering, a thirst manifests,
unsatisfied. Like faith, olives keep some of their secrets.
Black Opal Koan
A black opal holds the cards, slowly revealed
to be fog of the hand, witnesses before a judge,
stone-dark chants, verdicts from crowds. This
tired & tiresome trouble, we can & will survive it.
Winter, arm trap-caught. Spring, limb broad-axe
severed. For life, run to the city. No hawks soar
over towers. Amid highways, fingers in bark chips
grow roots, the hand blooms in survival, in art.
Notes: Such is the chemistry of position, truth
changes, not with time, but with proximity.
After you visit, I am left little, save music, vertigo,
strain to get out of the deep, the deep what-was.
I may wait too long for the fog to lift. Too quiet,
too careful, too long, too wrong so far, yet still
on my shoulders, I bear, today toward tomorrow,
ancient promises of fruit & another sunrise.
Eugene Stevenson
Eugene Stevenson, son of immigrants, father of expatriates, lives in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. Eisenhower Fellow, Pushcart Prize nominee & author of The Population of Dreams (Finishing Line Press 2022), his poems have appeared in The Galway Review, The Hudson Review, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, Tipton Poetry Journal, & Washington Square Review among others.
January 2023 | poetry
A direct hit this time.
Like a Halley’s Comet
coming in 1960 and going out now.
Twain would be proud of the old girl
made of cypress
impervious to nails.
But the river is deadly up
to a line taller than God.
The shallows breathe heavy
stripping palm trees.
The windows are all blown-out
blinds they unfurl to a sky submerged
where gulf water joins
up into the air like being
freed at last
like forever
like gone.
Ward Abel
Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, others), including a nomination for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including his latest collection, “The Width of Here” (Silver Bow, 2021). He is a reformed lawyer, he writes and plays music, and he teaches literature. Abel resides in rural Georgia.
January 2023 | poetry
kintsukuroi
dalia’s teaching our five-year-old son to prepare chili.
live from npr news, this is windsor johnston.
thirty years ago today, rodney king, then 25, was beaten fifty-six times by baton.
los angeles police stipulated the incident was not racially motivated.
1 red pepper
1 green pepper
1 can crushed tomato
1 yellow onion, finely brutalized
democrats suggest naming the bill to increase minimum wage “patriot pay.”
republicans say they will nullify the proposal.
½ teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon cumin
2 teaspoon smoked paprika
2 teaspoon granulated sugar
“chocolate is our secret ingredient.”
saudi crown prince mohammed bin salman will not be penalized
for the assassination of journalist jamal khashoggi.
1 can of dark kidney beans
1 can of light kidney beans
pinch of kosher salt
pepper to taste
occasionally stir chili to prevent beans from sticking to crockpot.
cook on low for seven to eight hours.
the murder trial of derek chauvin is slated to begin march 8th.
community leaders gathered outside city hall.
“we exist at a critical pivot. injustice uproots civilization.
compassion is limited—enough warfare!
we bear the tears of dead men. man can die, and yes, brother can die.
their empathy does not extend beyond themselves.
their echo chamber glamours cancer.
to say justice is blind is correct.
judges don’t consider us.”
on the patio, slouched in a garden chair, i press two fingers to my lips,
exhaling, flicking air with my thumb.
eduardo, the neighbor, is perfecting saxophone—‘round midnight’ by thelonious monk.
ed is having an affair.
after dissolving a domestic dispute, thompson street is relieved that police did not murder
a member of the alejo family.
between my thighs, a hibiscus. i empty the remainder of a water bottle
into her potted soil.
dalia hollers my name, and i enter the kitchen
sgt. stacey koon, officer theodore j. briseno, officer timothy wind,
and officer laurence powell were acquitted april 29th, 1992.
king, 47, died father’s day, june 17th, 2012.
jessica biel is thirty-eight.
on the back of a sapporo advertisement
subject of afternoon couples therapy
my inadequate communication skills.
—repeat important words and introduce them into conversation
—listen, listen, demonstrate respect
—make eye contact
—speak with positive intent
alabaster sun permeates my depression
like anglo-saxons colonizing a civilization
you unspool the ruin
exhibiting us to our therapist
her clad gaze traverses the hem of my cigarette
fantasizing some divine loophole.
ho sai gai, Chinatown
ms. feng spits into her palm, lubricating a pear.
dinner combination platters—served with choice of soup, one egg roll, and fried rice
number 4: sesame beef
number 8: lemon grass chicken
number 12: roasted pork fried rice
2 tequila sunrise
i’m explained the mathematics of vulnerability.
“there’s no reward to this marriage. you got two children from the arrangement.
i got c-section scars.”
amidst the beckoning cats, philadelphia fox 29:
officer unholstered, discharging into a block party
imperialism will clutch their pearls, call expert witnesses, claim ignorance
purifying themselves before acquittal.
suffering is granular, brutal as lips around the tip of her lover’s penis.
pills dissolve the landscape
flames as usual darkness reach their hands towards heaven
ho sai gai suggestion—for your dining pleasure, we advise the fantastic
mixture of best ingredients
nursing tequila sunrise, i sketched a poem on the back of a sapporo advertisement—
and in my hour, surrender has no domain.
naked, barricaded, tasteless cynical impulses masturbating before the mirror.
destitute without thunder, without saints, without amens.
amen, amen, we all demand something impractical.
“mortis” will be rejected by poetry magazine, i think to myself,
twirling pubic hair in the shower
ejaculating in my palm before mumbling to god.
pillaging what nectar remains in the basin—
“dear madeline, i know your body favors winter.”
“ dear madeline, i chisel the black bits of my heart with wild abandonment.”
“dear madeline, i emerged from a woman to devour her flesh.”
“maddie—we cannot afford a divorce. our credit score is abysmal.”
tonguing the rot in my mouth
captivated by the pain one can endure
i unhook my jaw to remove the tongue
burning in an ocean, i cannot master.
madeline, is this what you envisioned
when you said things are fucked?
Evan Anders brews coffee for mass consumption in Philadelphia. His poems have appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Chicago Quarterly Review, decomp journal, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. He is a retired stay-at-home dad who thinks Bob Dylan was best in the eighties. Visit Evan online at www.byevananders.com
