Everywhere All the Time (with a Line from Ashley Capps)

I hear a shotgun crack and find mother

at the woodpile—she’s shot another rat snake.

“But,” I say, “they keep the rabbit population down?”

“I like rabbits,” is her reply. “But your garden,” I say.

“Nothing anyone can do about that,” she sighs.

 

Here, it’s rabbits everywhere, all the time.

It’s like my brain conducts this leporine improvisation

of a to-and-fro mind, of a heart running for cover,

of jumpy, interrogative eyes.

 

When I mow the fields they watch me, race by my side.

When I search the night for satellites standing mother’s

living garden, there’s always one or two bunnies there,

piebald hearts beneath a half-stoned moon, stunned.

 

Rabbits manage nests from their own hair mixed with

scratched out soil. There’s one by the split elm, another

in the clover beneath a pram carrying eight kinds of mint.

 

Mom finds a new nest beneath the Muhly grass’s

pink pencil-troll head. We count nine newborn rabbits

pulsing as one like the heart Kate and I watched together

on a sonogram screen in a small, dim basement room.

 

I walk away and stand between two sunflowers tall as me.

I’ve caught them at the end of their conversation. One

sunflower says, “I am greater than or equal to the lack

and luck is weather that permits my red begonias.”

 

I count seven sunflowers, heads perfect size to be arranged

in a vase for an anniversary, but I let their necks hang free,

bent down toward one another, yellow, green, and brown.

 

Eric Roy is the author of All Small Planes (Lily Poetry Review Press 2021), which received the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominations for its hybrid writing. His recent work can be found or is forthcoming at Bennington Review, Fence, Iowa Review, Ploughshares, Salamander, Third Coast, and elsewhere.

 

Eric Roy

The Museum of Future Affairs

To go back is as hard almost

as forward.

 

We all got a little silence lodged

in our molars some time

 

in middle school, mostly.

Field trips to the museum of future affairs,

 

long bus rides, behind the glass

our taxidermied bodies

 

in frozen poses of parenting,

pharmacy lines, conference rooms.

 

On the ride back we did not discuss it and also

there was no ride back.

 

We lived there in the museum, locked in,

setting fires in the courtyard to keep busy.

 

No one came for us

and we liked it that way.

 

Wrapped our fists in the curtains,

broke the glass,

 

hauled out our own effigies.

Only warmed them by the fire.

 

To go forward is much

harder than backward but also less impossible.

 

They came for us, pounded on the doors,

begged and begged.

 

We would not budge. Not locked in

but them locked out.

 

The smoke they thought

was signal was just s’mores.

 

In the basement canned food

for any number of eternities.

 

Draped our arms around

ourselves and sang songs

 

we didn’t know yet.

The silence dried up,

 

our teeth gleamed, a new silence

came to cushion us.

 

It was different, springier,

a shared give in the air.

 

Oh, sure, there must be lots we’re missing,

but we’d just be missing more

 

out there. We’ve seen enough.

No season left to tempt us.

 

Katherine Tunning lives in Boston with her partner and a highly variable number of cats. Some of her recent poetry has appeared in Red Rock Review, Prime Number Magazine, and The Westchester Review. Her work has been nominated for the Sundress Best of the Net anthology and the Pushcart Prize and awarded the 2020 Penn Review Fiction Prize. You can find her online at www.katherinetunning.com.

 

Katherine Tunning

From across the Tracks

Up county, here in Mount Kisco, the men

from across the tracks wait patiently

at the station every weekday morning,

not for a train, but a day job, seated

on the edge of the sidewalk or against

the fence, near where cars enter to drop off

or pick up, all expectantly catching

the gazes of incoming drivers,

signaling silently, Whatever it is

you have to do, I can do it for you.

By noon, many head home to emptiness,

their wives away to serve as maids for

the more well-to-do. I wait for the train

from the Bronx that brings my housekeeper.

 

Jim Tilley has published three full-length collections of poetry and a novel with Red Hen Press. His short memoir, The Elegant Solution, was published as a Ploughshares Solo. His poem, “On the Art of Patience,” was selected by Billy Collins to win Sycamore Review’s Wabash Prize for Poetry. Four of his poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His next poetry collection, Ripples in the Fabric of the Universe: New & Selected Poems, will be published in June 2024.

 

Jim Tilley

A grasshopper in tall grass

I.

The Buddhas

tell us not

 

to think of

a heaven,

of a hell…

 

This breath comes.

That breath goes.

 

Then nothing.

 

II.

Klara Dan

von Neumann,

 

drove from home

to the beach—

 

walked into

the surf and

 

III.

Woolf wrote:

 

“Dearest, I

feel certain

 

I am mad …

again… I

 

am doing

what seems best…”

 

IV.

Sylvia

sealed off

 

the kitchen

with towels

 

to stop gas

from drifting

 

into where

her children

 

were sleeping.

 

V.

Lao Tau says:

 

“Heaven and

earth are not

 

humane. They

regard all

 

as straw dogs.”

 

VI.

The next day

morning came.

 

nothing at

all changed.

 

Straw dogs

don’t bark.

 

 

William Waters is an associate professor in the Department of English at the University of Houston Downtown. Along with Sonja Foss, he is coauthor of Destination Dissertation: A Traveler’s Guide to a Done Dissertation.

 

William J Waters

On Reading Auden to the Ghost of a Lost Limerence

In the Peabody Library reading room, a ramshackle longing has liberty to roam,
While the rhetoric of busybodied reality bustles without and within
The center of self-knowing. Beneath the architraves scrolled with Grecian ghosts,
And over the bookcases crimped dense with Virgil’s deeds,
Twenty centuries of ‘I Am’s impartially abided to this place divorced of time.
Beside the domesticity of books, the graduate students sit, talking contentedly
Of matters related to weather, and ‘she loves you not’s’ of restrained importance,
And have exiled vellum-spined Kipling, Coleridge, Cranes’ consciousnesses
From their all-important talk, then to someplace as unreached
Within these twenty centuries and five floors of domesticity,
Below whose atrium the unconsoled words of creation
Retire into their dreadful humanity, read through perhaps and put away –
I search in heed for the truest ‘kings of infinite space.’

Wandering the columns of the Peabody,
Bordering a prodigiously fat shelf set aside for the modernist thing,
Certain truths seem forgivable to readers of certain breeds.
To chance upon a no more commonplace volume of Auden –
I turn to his ‘September 3, 1939’ two days, eighty years after the occasion
And chance upon some lady’s no more commonplace tow-color of hair,
Doubtless, having been collected by some stranger into a blonde plait,
A stranger whose limerence had left it truer bookmarked beside the verse –
‘For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.’

 

A young poet whose work can be best described as “allowing the glory of the mundane to permeate our understanding.”

 

Maxwell Tang

Fertility

It was spring, no I mean dusk, and the killdeer began stepping up out

of intricate doors in the field.

 

They sported unseen fires beneath their downy vests.

 

Their presence had been warming the soil before the corn crop, except

for their dead sisters, brothers who had joined the soil.

 

 

No, that was in my dream, before the part where the covers had parted

and a voice I didn’t recognize asked a question.

 

It felt like an ancient alphabet trying to spell some message.

 

It left a churning in my belly for the rest of that day, and again the day

after.

 

 

And the killdeer, that first night, had yet to break their wings.

 

They had no fear of owls, nor of hawks in the morning, after

daybreak.

 

And the toe prints they left in the muddy swale read as the myth of

Osiris.

 

Steve Fay began life twelve miles from the Mississippi River in western Illinois. Since the mid-1970s, many journals have published his poetry, which lately appears (or is forthcoming) in: Closed Eye Open, Comstock Review, Decadent Review, Jabberwock Review, Menacing Hedge, Santa Clara Review, Tar River Poetry, The Dewdrop, TriQuarterly, and Watershed Review. His collection, what nature: Poems (Northwestern UP, 1998), was cited by the editors and board of The Orion Society as one of their 10 favorite nature/culture-related books of the 12-month period in which it appeared. He lives among wooded ravines and a donkey pasture in Fulton County, Illinois.

 

Steve Fay