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Showing posts from January, 2019

42 From 90, a poem by Christopher Stolle

Editor's note: Today is the 100th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's birth. 42 From 90 by Christopher Stolle Jackie ran toward home his cleats stubborn his pants fashionably dirty his cap racing behind him the fans bewildered the pitcher stunned the catcher confused by such disregard for decorum the third base coach livid cursing, stomping, chasing after his charge the teammates swarming the coach retreating the manager fainting the umpire extending his arms to take flight with Jackie Bio: Christopher Stolle’s writing has appeared most recently in Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island, Edify Fiction, Contour, The New Southern Fugitives, The Gambler, Gravel, The Light Ekphrastic, Sheepshead Review, and Plath Poetry Project. He works as an acquisitions and development editor for Penguin Random House, and he lives in Richmond, Indiana.

No-Name Bingo Club, a poem by Marissa Rose

No-Name Bingo Club by Marissa Rose Named for want of anonymity or lack of creativity, it’s anyone’s guess— dead nights and a vacant parking lot both transformed by that institution setting up snap-leg folding tables in an old store-front, Sunday nights in town. Not holy enough for night church? Pay your looseleaf dollars and unfold your chair among the long, brown rows. It was not a brotherhood— the prizes were canned peas or a bus pass— but a queer girl could do worse, stamping daubers the color of road vests over a grid that looked the same each time you played. You could feel lucky when luck was doled out evenly between you and the octogenarians, and if the numbers didn’t jag in stair-steps toward your favor, at least they never tried to save your soul. It went the way most places went: there, and then not. The town did not spin off its axis, or even, after a time, recall what the paneled walls once held.

Her Addiction: a poem by Mary Sexson

Her Addiction by Mary Sexson Recompense You laid down the needle, and took up your life again, only looking back to count the reasons you had lived. Your boy beside you each day is enough, you said. So we all walk forward a few steps, holding our breath to see if this can last, or will some terrible pull breach the dike and drag you back into the wash? You say you have your own God, one the books don’t talk about, one who is privy to your fears and secrets. But this God doesn’t punish, or hold you down with guilt. And so I, in my faithlessness, call him to me, render my recompense, and barter for my debt. Back Into the Fray One hundred days did not give you the clarity you sought, nor did it remove any obstacles from your path. It merely proved to be a short respite, for all of us, from the relentless grind of your addiction. We laid our heads down, collectively, and slept a dreamless sleep

Lost in Translation: A Spaniard With English Ears, a poem by Vincent Corsaro

Lost in Translation: A Spaniard With English Ears by Vincent Cosaro Language is a shifty puta . Play around with it just right and you can build bridges between tongues. Use only the shape of ink and write on a thin strip of Spanish wood. “ The sky is a cello . The dog is a pair of boots. Red rivers urge me to row home as wolves chew on low bones .” Add more filler a handful of black and white chords some música . Abstract thought is in style now. The gringos will think you’re an artist, that you have something special in your mind. “ Go smoke on food mars . Your feet are nothing but old pies , lukewarm, unmoving. You sleep with a bad case of dorm ears . Your shoes hold zapped out toes . You can’t eat , you comb air like a photosynthesizing plant a large metal tree , upside down a bowl .” They’ll have no clue you’re full of mierda that you have a small book, a pocket translator, turning your native ton

In the Poet's House, a poem by Terry Ofner

In the Poet’s House by Terry Ofner I saw wainscot of tin made to look like wood and I traced my finger on it and followed her up and heard notes as from a practice room somewhere above—fingers on white keys and black made to look like wood and the left hand put down a limping bass line and the right foot held the pedal and I felt the quiver and traced a finger along it and wondered—can I be like me? and the now answered with a mocking tin-like song: “Can I be like me?” then I saw her skirt disappear at a twist in the stairs—and the ghost of piano forte made a sound like metal and wood and I traced a finger to feel it and I saw her follow herself up into the music Bio: Terry Ofner has published poetry in World Order, 100 Words, Right Hand Pointing, Ghazal Page, Flying Island, San Pedro River Review, and forthcoming in I70 Review. Helives in Indianapolis and is an editor for an educational publishing company headquartered in