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
The Wedding Photo
My mother, in her clean white
Dress is a psychology participant
Trapped inside a double-mirrored
Room, not quite sure how to play
The part. In a few moments,
Dr. Stanley Milgram will emerge,
Asking if she will mind being "teacher"
And comment on the stillness of her
Cleveland, Ohio eyes — eyes
That taste like chocolate.
She is twenty-four, and Stanley
Will be smitten by the way she grits
Her small teeth. If you look closely,
You can see my father, rosy
In his brown tux, he has shrunk himself
To the size of a strawberry seed, so that
He may drunkenly snore inside
That one pore, where nostril fastens to cheek.
My mother is getting nervous and her eyes
plead, ¿Galleta, Maria, galleta?
I am sitting inside a loop of paisley
Embroidered on the parlor chair.
If I sneeze, she may hear me,
And then I will never be born. The light fixture
Dial of iniquity is laughing coquettishly
In the corner, and my mother winces
that the dial has had too much to drink.
Dr. Milgram has left the scene, bored by
My mother’s Venezuela, Kansas farm girl
Manners. But Robert Lowell, just discovering
My father, examines him through a monocle.
Lowell calmly states that my mother’s
Marriage to this man will be the unraveling
Of his brand-new Macy’s orange towel. I wonder
If Lowell can see into the future, or was it just
A lucky guess, that I’d be born without a
Single sound.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
