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
Eve on Top
If I wasn't supposed to part my lips
at the waiting bosom of that apple,
red, glistening, desperate for my teeth,
God wouldn't have given me such beauty.
This river of hair was made for falling, flowing
like spun bronze over shivering shoulders.
This river of gold wires caressing
my amber tipped breasts tells me
that my lips can kiss whatever they desire.
When my back first arched in creation
above Eden's shag carpet, Adam ceased to be
a mere idea fumbling among the foliage, love
hardened within him like a rib bone
but paradise was a wisp of smoke,
a poorly written foreword.
These legs, these lashes, these lips
look better when they're closed
or so I was soon told by a husband
who preferred the company of angels
to the curves of his waiting wife,
warm, glowing, and desperate for his touch.
Alone and drowning in my own reflection,
I flirted with apples while Adam
chatted incessantly with those gilded pigeons.
The face in the sky had it all figured out:
Leave the beautiful woman alone long enough
and she'll start looking for snakes.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
