Glass Poetry Press

editor@glass-poetry.com

Volume Four Issue One

Cover

Masthead

Terry Mulert:
Innocence

Andrea O'Rourke:
Driving in the Rain in Atlanta

Heather Derr-Smith:
The Chase

David Sullivan:
George Bush Eats Shoe (In My Dreams)

Laurie Barton:
Contact High

Maureen Kingston:
First Love, Age 8

Alan King:
Vacant

Margaret Walther:
On the Way to Your Funeral

Laura Merzig Fabrycky:
Almonds

Anne Barngrover:
Hail Annie

Louis Gallo:
Mercy

Jennifer Yeatts

Hip Poem

— after Dorianne Laux Your sloping hill and valley hip. Your wheatfield sunny afternoon hip, your narrow chisel bike-pedal of a hip. The slender curving lurch curled against my back as we slip into sleep, your swagger Sunday morning skipping church to walk downtown hip. The hip behind the faded pocket of your Luckys, where I reach sometimes to swipe your keys or knife. Your powertool twist and hammer hip. Your yoga before breakfast hip, hip where your slow breath rests between each drawn stretch. Your perfect skipping-rock of a hip. Your puddle- jump, swing-and-spin, peach-skin hip. Grip my thumb reaches for upon waking, languid grasp to reel me from dream to light. Your swivel on the dance floor hip, a hip for each hand to clutch, precursor to the closeness I crave in evenings. Your sailing fore and aft hip, your hired deckhand crows-nest of a hip. Your knuckle-soft, chiropractor nightmare hip. Your always ticklish, never tucked in t-shirt hip. Eggs for breakfast, leave the dishes, snuggle deep under flannel not-an-inch-between-us wrinkle of a hip. Carry me home hip.

Karen J. Weyant:
The Summer I Stopped Catching Bees

Laura Merzig Fabrycky:
Finished

Kristin Roedell:
Exorcism at Half Time

Heather Derr-Smith:
Three Wolves, December Storm, Boundary Waters

Susan Alkaitis:
Undone

Terry Mulert:
Inside Walls

Jennifer Yeatts:
Hip Poem

Brenda Paro:
I Keep Having This Dream

Corinna McClanahan Schroeder:
We Are Learning to Be Silent Together —

Contributors