Series Editors' Picks
** The following submissions were selected by our editors to highlight pieces we felt demonstrated exceptional quality, form, and execution**
Overall Editors' Pick
Settle(d)
by Leia K. Bradley
(Poetry)
by Leia K. Bradley
(Poetry)
I watch my tall, tawny love exit the tent,
kissing me good morning like swatting a mosquito.
I perch on my haunches, taking mortar and pestle to lavender sprigs.
I add the lilac powder to my oatmeal, add berries, cinnamon for sultry sweet
Offer some to the moon, to the coyotes, wherever they are. Hopefully somewhere with shade.
I cook her thick-cut bacon in the cast iron, even though I don’t eat meat.
She didn’t sleep well, she says, You always wake me up.
I was dreaming of running on all fours, instinct like lupine lore,
dreamt of eating blueberries in a sandstorm.
I don’t tell her these things
just apologize instead. She nods.
I watch the thin line of her lips sipping tea in summer heat.
She won’t eat blueberries because they stain the teeth.
I don’t remember why I started loving her.
I bathe her in the stream. I let her touch me by the riverbed.
She says she feels closest to me when I’m five fingers deep
And I answer with each of them, one by one.
When the sun lilts in to sear across the west, I draw our initials in the red dirt.
She toes a heart around them with her hiking boot.
Is love supposed to feel so routine? she asks.
I kneel to touch the settled dust, smear it across her forehead with my thumb,
press my lips there.
I gather pine seeds in the canyon’s curve,
walk back to the river alone, skinnydip in the cool rush of watery rust.
The coyotes howl high at moonrise, and I answer back. No, it isn’t supposed to feel
like nothing. Some obligatory habit.
But the years between us are heavy, ground hard, months poured and packed
days into decades like dust into sandstone.
I drop my head beneath the water’s edge, open my eyes to the blur of liquid earth.
I walk back to the campsite in a white sundress, dripping wet, dust clinging to soles.
Her eyes make the distance. Wordless,
she pours herself a hot tea in ninety-eight degrees.
Neither of us will trade solid comfort for fatelessly afloat,
directionless.
Neither of us will bother to leave.
kissing me good morning like swatting a mosquito.
I perch on my haunches, taking mortar and pestle to lavender sprigs.
I add the lilac powder to my oatmeal, add berries, cinnamon for sultry sweet
Offer some to the moon, to the coyotes, wherever they are. Hopefully somewhere with shade.
I cook her thick-cut bacon in the cast iron, even though I don’t eat meat.
She didn’t sleep well, she says, You always wake me up.
I was dreaming of running on all fours, instinct like lupine lore,
dreamt of eating blueberries in a sandstorm.
I don’t tell her these things
just apologize instead. She nods.
I watch the thin line of her lips sipping tea in summer heat.
She won’t eat blueberries because they stain the teeth.
I don’t remember why I started loving her.
I bathe her in the stream. I let her touch me by the riverbed.
She says she feels closest to me when I’m five fingers deep
And I answer with each of them, one by one.
When the sun lilts in to sear across the west, I draw our initials in the red dirt.
She toes a heart around them with her hiking boot.
Is love supposed to feel so routine? she asks.
I kneel to touch the settled dust, smear it across her forehead with my thumb,
press my lips there.
I gather pine seeds in the canyon’s curve,
walk back to the river alone, skinnydip in the cool rush of watery rust.
The coyotes howl high at moonrise, and I answer back. No, it isn’t supposed to feel
like nothing. Some obligatory habit.
But the years between us are heavy, ground hard, months poured and packed
days into decades like dust into sandstone.
I drop my head beneath the water’s edge, open my eyes to the blur of liquid earth.
I walk back to the campsite in a white sundress, dripping wet, dust clinging to soles.
Her eyes make the distance. Wordless,
she pours herself a hot tea in ninety-eight degrees.
Neither of us will trade solid comfort for fatelessly afloat,
directionless.
Neither of us will bother to leave.
Editors' Honorable Mention
The Deviant Tree
by Mikal Wix
(Poetry)
by Mikal Wix
(Poetry)
Perhaps he’s the only one to breathe this rarefied air today
Sloughing off casual insults, blustering punches thrown
Skin folding over itself to thicken, like a hatchling’s shell.
Maybe he’s here to forget his father and all other barking breeds
To fool his mother out of worry, out of snot and tears
To lie to everyone except the poems and other mirrors.
But he’s not alone, barefoot and stoned by burls and bruises
Waiting behind this service station, out of sight for delight
For the eyes that lead to hands and back again.
Call him fag, girl, queen, but only if you are one
Or bud, dude, stud, if you want some
For the hands that lead to mouths and back again.
Worship him in rains that never end, like a Carpenters tune
From headwater to deluge, like the way a flash flood runs
Through an arroyo in May, claiming the filth his own.
Shelter him from the imposition of contempt by peasants
Priests, police, pundits, and scorn of other father tricks
Shifty ones claiming to save children from sophistry.
Love him in all the newborn moments behind places and in spaces
Bookstores, bars, the wharf, if you need some
For the mouths that accept what’s taken and given.
Treasure him for lovers who fold the laws into themselves
Partners, boyfriends, husbands, if you want one or two
For how to father the fate of fruit: peach, root, and tree.
Sloughing off casual insults, blustering punches thrown
Skin folding over itself to thicken, like a hatchling’s shell.
Maybe he’s here to forget his father and all other barking breeds
To fool his mother out of worry, out of snot and tears
To lie to everyone except the poems and other mirrors.
But he’s not alone, barefoot and stoned by burls and bruises
Waiting behind this service station, out of sight for delight
For the eyes that lead to hands and back again.
Call him fag, girl, queen, but only if you are one
Or bud, dude, stud, if you want some
For the hands that lead to mouths and back again.
Worship him in rains that never end, like a Carpenters tune
From headwater to deluge, like the way a flash flood runs
Through an arroyo in May, claiming the filth his own.
Shelter him from the imposition of contempt by peasants
Priests, police, pundits, and scorn of other father tricks
Shifty ones claiming to save children from sophistry.
Love him in all the newborn moments behind places and in spaces
Bookstores, bars, the wharf, if you need some
For the mouths that accept what’s taken and given.
Treasure him for lovers who fold the laws into themselves
Partners, boyfriends, husbands, if you want one or two
For how to father the fate of fruit: peach, root, and tree.
Other Editor Favorites
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Andrea Wagner:
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Autumn Andersen:
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Jarred White:
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Essence Saunders &
Jessica Charest: |
