ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Cover
Masthead
Rane Arroyo:
Brokeback Mountain
Frederick Lord:
Diving Bell
Allison Tobey:
The Wedding Photo
Frederick Lord:
Cupping My Car Keys like a Bird I Want to Keep Quiet
Tom Carson:
Breakfast plate portraits
Ryan McLellan:
Too much life
Peter Gunn:
Tate Modern
Tom Carson:
The beach
Sally O'Quinn:
October View
Jeff Crouch:
thermostat
JR Walsh:
Maybe he'll adopt our children
Carine Topal:
Eating Apples
David B. McCoy:
Skylight
Lightsey Darst:
Don't
Amanda McQuade:
At the Shore
Lenore Weiss:
U.S. Soldier With Traumatic Stress Disorder Syndrome, Post Iraq
Adam Houle:
How I Imagine the Seasons on a Walk with My Dog
Daria Tavana:
Bunkered Up!
Martin Willitts, Jr.:
Forest Haiku
Joseph Reich:
from Twelve Odd Stanzas Involving Culture
Lisa Fay Coutley:
In Love, Fridays are Best Spent Watching the Discovery Channel
Ray Succre:
Seedless Blackberry Jam
Davide Trame:
The Threshold
John Grey:
Glassy
Ryan McLellan:
Exploratory
Kenneth Pobo:
Leave it to Buble
Joseph Hutchison:
Poplar
Amanda McQuade:
Happy Hour 3
Adam Penna:
from Lyrics to Genji
Lisa Fay Coutley:
In e-Harmony
Anne Baldo:
jenny hanniver
Jackson Lassiter:
Instant Oatmeal Instructions
Taylor Graham:
Erinys Erinys
Celeste Snowber:
water litany
Davide Trame:
Moth
Contributors
Volume One Issue One
Too Much Life
She sprang back, a Lady Lazarus;
Fresh linens, dehydration, lungs of lead,
Eyes bags of blood, like a mulish
Dandelion on a treated lawn;
Not because of her mother’s tear-filled
Beseeching
(Please, just breathe, honey …
Please, just breathe)
But because there were
Too many shards of energy left in her head,
Too many supernovas in her eyes —
She couldn’t stay put, even with the
Restraints fastened, and she leapt from
The new womb like Blake’s infant, unable
To allow father to break her, unable to pay
Obedience to “Therriens don’t cry” as they
Searched for a vein, time and time and time
And time again, and all the while
He sat at home, calling for updates on his dying
Daughter while she had arteries and her
Spinal column tapped —
When breathing became a chore, she contemplated
What it might be like if she, just … stopped … secretly
Cursing her mother for not staying strong
As she wept at the bedside —
A slow decent into death without breath
Seems intriguing and a welcome relief from no sleep,
No food but ice chips and endless I.V’s —
She was … just … so … fucking … tired …
of trying to be the perfect daughter for a man
That could never be pacified, tired of smiling
Through screams to people who thought they
Knew her, tired of binging and purging, binging
And purging, tired of not feeling like a kid, of
Running away, of filling voids with various boys
Who’d treat her like shit, she just wanted rest
And she wanted youth back from men who’d
Taken it from her with their words and their
Bullshit promises …
She breathed, too much “Fuck you” left in those lungs,
Her breath and her song
Was an incendiary symphony —
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
