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
Susan Deer Cloud:
Playing Marbles
Dan Nowak:
A Return to the Past After History Failed Me
Katie Hartsock:
The Sun Does Not Rise, We Turn To It
Naomi Glassman:
Miles until Michigan
Michael Keshigian:
Landlord
Andrew Terhune:
The Rabbits of Chicago Wait Only for Me
Mel Sarnese:
Family Reunion
David W. Landrum:
Jugville, USA
Todd Heldt:
The Problem with Memory
Tad Richards:
Mittens
Benjamin Russell:
Picasso's Loaves, 1952 (a photograph by Robert Doisneau)
Richard Lighthouse:
activities during meetings
Ryan A. Bunch:
At the Graveyard
Samuel S. Vargo:
Just a Rainy Night in Georgia
Caitlin Ramsey:
Handy
Kyi May Kaung:
Geese
Steve Klepetar:
Kids Today
Steve Trebellas:
Sweet Dimes
Dan Nowak:
Walking Through a Snow Storm is Like Waiting to Call Yourself
Kathleen Boyle:
O Nonni
Katerina Stoykova-Klemer:
Stones
Susan Deer Cloud:
Asthma
Patty Paine:
salt; or the night you left
Kyi May Kaung:
I come from …
Allan Peterson:
My Math
Maw Shein Win:
throwing sparklers at the green mezzanine
Kim Roberts:
Summer Rain
Samuel S. Vargo:
Fotophone
Janice D. Rubin:
Interstate 5
Patrick Loafman:
An Idiot's Guide to the Blue Cat
Saeed Jones:
Eve on Top
Jean Tupper:
Gisela, my friend …
Michael Spring:
Leaving Belfast
Ryan A. Bunch:
Annual Toads
Katie Hartsock:
Leaving the Forest
Contributors
Volume One Issue Two
O Nonni
Then the Pope was dying too
and I thought of you all day. Such
a holy man you said again
and again after seeing
him at Candlestick. In pictures
he was shrunken as you were
that afternoon I found you lying
on your kitchen floor, clawing
at nothing with toes and fingers,
wailing. A few weeks later
you were dying and I
was in Egypt. Anytime
nowShe's like a small
alien my sister emailed. The day
you died I wandered yellow
streets of Coptic Cairo, stopped
in every church to light candles.
Each flame flared up then pulled
back from its match. The saints stared
past me through black
eyes. Now I live
in your house, go days without
thinking of it or even you. Then
some Wednesday I return from work
to your smell of roses, hotcakes, girdles,
palms from Palm Sundays past and
all I want to hear is the voice
that goes with this smell. There is nothing
in particular I want to tell you, there
was already this space between my lapsed
life of men, drinks, books, planes,
and yours of dentures in a fuzzy glass. Yesterday
coming up the back stairs
there it was again by your second stove,
the one you'd use to fry
fish on Fridays. And I would pray
a hundred rosaries to sit once more
with you at your kitchen table as you sip
coffee, two hands on your daffodil mug.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
