Deron Eckert

October 2025 | poetry

A J. G. Ballard Kind of Gone

 after Patti Smith

The first cool dawn following the unwavering

humidity Kentucky summers are known for, a layer

of mist containing upwards of a century of morning

dew rises eye level from the farm, like fallen soldiers

discharging their specters all at the same time

to face this particular day long past the echoes

of each shot they never heard from their neighbors

who planted them down here in this field, as if

the dead were waiting for appropriate weather

conditions to properly chill the living to the bone,

but driving in my car, windows up, heat half on,

could safely say I feel as warm as the day before

if not for the fact my arms are goose pimpled

just from looking out the driver’s side window,

wondering if I stood out there in the thick of it—

if I could even bring myself to step out of my car

and march forward into the mist—would I

hear a soldier cry for help or my dog yelp

or Nana whisper something blood-curdling,

along the lines of why did you let me go?

All it is is cold.

In Dreams Return Memories

after Maggie Millner

Often, I dreamt

that [s]he and I

were back together.

Pathetic how much I found

in the black of night

with my eyes closed,

my brain turned off,

the projections of what was

offered up in a trough

I was expected to wade around in

to find only the sweet remnants

bobbing before me,

robbing me of reason,

the knowledge the giblets

removed with the kill

were still floating somewhere,

souring the sweet,

muddying the water,

turning the sweetest soup

into unsavory stew,

beet red in color

reminiscent of blood

pooling below

the hanging carcass

of a prized deer

so tremendous in life,

so reduced once sliced

from ass to breast,

when there’s still some

heat coming off the fresh corpse

in the November cold.

Could be these sweet dreams

are meant to remind me

what was warm once—

old to me now

but unadulterated in youth

so apparent with life

I could see only the prize,

blind to anything pooling below,

leaking out, slipping away,

distracted by eyes

so green and wide

that I never wanted

to see them cry,

let alone ever be the reason.

Then, I’d wake up

in my lonesome bed

and recall how

I was just that this season.

At least there are the dreams

where everything is still good,

we are still good.

At least somewhere still exist

where our love remains

constant, understood.

Deron Eckert

Deron Eckert is a poet and writer who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Blue Mountain Review, Appalachian Journal, Rattle, Stanchion, Beaver Magazine, The Fourth River, and elsewhere. He can be found on Instagram at deroneckert.

Wes Civilz

October 2025 | poetry

Self-Portrait as Carefully-Written Poem

Each line a soft and velvet shelf upon

Which every syllable’s a gem. A notch

For each to sit in, snug … ten gleaming swans

Perched rung-like on the water’s plane. Now watch

How, necklace-like, each gem will sound in turn

Its note, a melody of light, when pain

Arrives, the steady visitor. You’ll burn

Your eyes. Don’t look too long. Inside the flames

Of facets, crown to girdle, there lurk rays

Of information that perhaps you should wait

To learn, or never learn at all, or play

Dumb about if you do. Or you could place

The gems inside a case, inside a safe,

Inside a mine outside of time and space.

Wes Civilz

Wes Civilz lives next to a dusty cactus in Tucson, Arizona. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as The Threepenny Review, The North American Review, and New Ohio Review. He posts writing-oriented videos on Instagram under the handle @wes_civilz.