Glass Poetry Press

editor@glass-poetry.com

Volume Five Issue Two

Cover

Masthead

Amy Schulz:
Moth to Flame Theories

Danielle Hanson:
How I came to find you were unfaithful

Lisa C. Krueger:
Secured Cushions, Beer and Olives

Anatoly Kudryavitsky:
The Lakeside Wind

Laurie Barton:
Word Over the World

John Calavitta:
Sense is Suction Fountains

Jnana Hodson:
Liquid Cartography

Anne Britting Oleson:
Where We Leapt From

Fred Longworth:
suddenly, you realize you're trapped in a movie

Gail DiMaggio

My Dead Husband Drops By

— surfing in under the curl of the REM wave. I look up from a tryst with the naked piano player, a flight over Trenton on recently sprouted wings, and there's Tony — grey as a case of freezer burn, knocking back a scotch, probably mad. "What did you expect," I ask, "his and hers funeral pyres?" No sale. Money. I think. It must be the money, and I start with the high cost of not being dead, my wheedle shouted after him as he sleds toward the back of the airplane hanger, and at last it dawns on me: this is no "honey I'm home again" moment, this is a man on his way. I call him a just-passing-through, long-distance asshole and — why not get ugly? — I call him a corpse. But as I'm snarling, "What's the use of you, you corpse," the platform is swamped in shudder, in rumble and hiss, the train plows into the station, the PA crackles to life, and someone judicial is droning. The dead, he says, the dead are helpless.

Lizzi Vignali:
Hands I've Held (II)

Steve Klepetar:
Speaking to the Field Mice

Laurie Barton:
Love Note to Notre Dame

John Grey:
Untimely

Kristina Popiel:
Elegy on My Mother's Breast

Amy Schulz:
Listening to Koi

William Wright Harris:
Dejected Ode on Coffee

Stephen Williams:
Discovering Fire

Paul Nelson:
December 21st

Nathan Prince:
Brother

Gail DiMaggio:
My Dead Husband Drops By

Contributors