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
Irene Latham:
The house on Baltimore street was not built for battle
Anuja Ghimire:
Saffron
Gene Fox:
Beach Glass
William Doreski:
In the Name of Some Endowment
Phoebe Reeves:
Commute
Radames Ortiz:
August Trance
Christopher Flakus:
Streetlight Mantra
Leslie Contreras:
Survival in Bucharest
Pamela Coren:
Phases of the Moon
Tim Hunt:
Canned Tuna
Jason C. Venner:
BloodMusic
Dawn Schout:
Hooked
Christopher Flakus:
It was somewhere in Mexico
Phoebe Reeves:
Absences
Radames Ortiz:
Mateo
Caleb Parkin:
Blood Groups
Mary C. O'Malley:
Moon Shining Through Bedroom Window
Peter D. Goodwin:
A Poem Written While Watching Children Study Art In A Museum Instead Of Playing Outside
Robert Hastings:
Those Weekday Nights When I Am Truly Lucky
Irene Latham:
In my mother's dream
Caroline Misner:
Trilliums in May
Weam Namou:
American and Iraqi Soldiers Unite in a Dance
Ashley Capes:
rotary
Jessica Colley:
The Reason Picasso Hangs Over My Bed
Martin Ott:
Mercy
Donal Mahoney:
Meeting Dad Again
Chris Crittenden:
Halloween
Ryder Collins:
How to apologize to ----, a Manual in progress
Kim Triedman:
Pink toenails change everything
Weam Namou:
My Brother's Wife
Contributors
Volume One Issue Three
The house on Baltimore Street was not built for battle
but that did not stop the dirt-faced Rebs from trampling
its staircase and hammering rifle holes through the attic brick
where boy after boy disappeared in a puff of smoke
and that did not stop the whistle pop thump as fear
flooded their eyes then receded into a bright red pool
that seeped through the floorboards and trickled down the walls
into the kitchen where Hettie hovered over the children —
Look Mama, the youngest one said. Red ribbon!
But it was not red ribbon and after three days of cannon fire
when the children finally slept and Hettie peeked out
the curtained window she could see nothing of Gettysburg
save a mountain of human limbs rising from the front lawn
and there was no one to comfort her, no place to put
the story she was dying to tell, so she buried it in the rubble,
patched the holes with mud and spit and sticks
left it to glow phosphorescent a hundred and forty years later
when scientists came with their powdered gloves
to plunder the corners with beams of black light.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
