July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
A Borrowed View
In a borrowed room
the hitchhikers
share a diminished view
of the city at dawn:
the sunrise fractured
by clouds
and the Waffle House sign
and of course the interstate.
With blurry eyes
they can’t fully see
or remember which direction
they came from
or where they want to go.
Almost before
this experience is over
it has been added
to the other experiences
so similar in all
the important ways
that they run together,
which wouldn’t be so bad
if this moment of confusion
weren’t the only thing
they could safely rely on.
The Red Cedar
Every year someone drowns
in this river
which is named
for the cedar leaves
coloring its water.
It is always
a college student,
a dreamer or
outcast or sometimes
just someone
coming home from
the bar too late
with too much
on their mind.
No one is ever
sure of what drew
them toward the water’s
edge. Perhaps the way
ducks huddle against
the bank or tree roots
hang over the water
like a step,
like an invitation
to some unknown world
where movement is
a given and progress
and destruction
are often the same.
by John Abbott
John Abbott is a writer, musician, and English instructor who lives with his wife and daughter in Kalamazoo, Michigan. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Potomac Review, Georgetown Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, Arcadia, Atticus Review, upstreet, Underground Voices, Fast Forward: A Collection of Flash Fiction, and many others. His first chapbook “There Should Be Signs Here” is forthcoming from Wormwood Chapbooks. For more information about his writing, please visit www.johnabbottauthor.com
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Cove
Where the
Black rock
Is soaked
In silver spray,
Moonlit
My guttural baritones
Are
Bowed strings of longing
Come in to my cove,
My black wings
Encircling
I cannot
Promise
A halo
But you and I, we
Could circle the fire
Let the howl
Of the wild
Rip the skin
From the waters
It will never
Tear the tears
From closed eyes
So please,
Burrow
And Settle
In the crook
The cradled bay
And I will set us in stone
If you will stay
Silence
There is no better sound;
the greatest opus
The caught breath
between thrusts
As her father calls
from beyond the walls
And a gulp slips away down a throat
The smoking gun
A peeling onion
and the tears of realisation
tearing out the truth talking noise clutter
It is guilt.
Pulled through in puppet strings
A thread long
A tight wire – line straight, an endless
unravelling of the mind inside
It is the music of tension,
the eternity of waiting
It is taking
the talking for a talking to
Away beyond the sidelines
Downstairs behind the kitchen door
and out through the garden, the garage,
the secret corner and the sly cigarette your father
will never show unto your mother
It is the monolith
in white block
One giant eraser ready
for the painting over
The one coat non drip glossing over a canvas
A cosmic napkin wiping the crumbing
of the messy eating of language
and the swirling amateur chaos of colour mixing
A palette trashed
A square punch to a whiteout
A collapse from a breakdown
And the blurring, the peaceful nothing
Of a hospital bed in morphine
With a sawn off shotgun
and a hearing all sewn up
A hearing
O, finally a hearing
without a judgement;
A hearing we don’t have to listen to.
by Greg Webster
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Wine Tasting
Breathe,
but don’t inhale.
Taste and swish,
but don’t swallow.
The experience
lasts a moment,
then discarded
into a silver bucket.
So dignified,
so proper,
delicate ladies
with perfect hair
spitting blood
red mouthfuls.
Falling in Love Outside a Ryan Adams Concert
Into a swirl of smoke and music,
awkward chatter fades away.
Cigarette smoke mingles with,
Just put your arms around her already.
A woman laughs.
Pretense of scalped tickets
falls away, as we move closer,
pressed together in the rain.
by Laura Baker
