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
Annual Toads
I was seven and named mine Gus. We'd caught toads
in a murky old creek about a mile from my house,
my brother said it ran straight into Lake Erie. I wanted
to train that toad and take him to school with me.
On the playground he would do tricks, the other kids
would want one too, they'd call me Toad Man,
we'd even make cover of the yearbook. But,
after two days all he'd done was pee on my hand.
I didn't have any idea what to feed him, so my brother
and I decided to release them in the sandbox. We set
them down and they hopped away. I stepped back
into a thicket of milkweed. Under my bare foot I felt
a rubbery squish. We rushed him to the ER of our garage.
I disassembled an old matchbox car and removed the rear axle.
Derek made the cart and the toad died when we strapped
it to him with a twist-tie from a bread bag. We buried him in a ratty
washcloth that summer, right underneath the Tulips
in the flowerbed. That was the first time I heard the term 'annual'.
Tulips were perennials, Gus was a perennial, and Derek
said that he and I were perennials too. I didn't always believe
him though. That creek might have run into Lake Erie,
and into the ocean, and all the way to China.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
