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Sublimation,
by Janice Greenwood

One thing becomes another. For instance
a spiderweb and a mosquito turn
valences of water into a dance
of silk and spindle. These, in turn, spurn

the visual apparatus in order
to capture butterflies by accident,
exposing failures of vision. Failures?
Psychologists seek an antecedent

to thought. When the patient says, I am not
thinking about a red shoe
, a red shoe
appears anyway. Everything is not
a penis, but everything might be a shoe.

If the shoe fits the foot, then wear it thin.
Come love, crawl in; be the worm in my gin.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 2.

Janice Greenwood studied poetry at the University of Florida and at Columbia University, where I was a Benjamin T. Burns Fellow in poetry. Her poems have appeared in ARC Poetry Magazine, DIAGRAM, New England Review, Southeast Review, Western Humanities Review and elsewhere.

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I Am That –,
by Ezra Dan Feldman

Now wings,
now water

beneath me come
drunken things

and clear skies
I follow

now iron
now steam

beneath a stream
tracks run

you trail
a girder’s sorrow

now birdsong now ecstasy’s
o

beneath us
go our bright hands

our hungry breaths
our marrow

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 2.

Ezra Dan Feldman Ezra Dan Feldman grew up in Cambridge, MA. He graduated from Harvard in 2002, and received his M.F.A. from Cornell in 2007. His first book manuscript, The Body as One, was a finalist for the 2011 Kinereth Gensler Awards and the 2011 NFSPS Stevens Poetry Manuscript Competition, and a semi-finalist for the 2011 Anthony Hecht Poetry Prize.

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Scraps,
by Michelle Matthees

A picnic table in the rain stained with brandy
fumes in clear evanescence. Dent it with a fingernail.

A last name that when uttered, back in town
is met with an awkward silence, a silence that’s a semi

full of empty shoeboxes. At night inside
the poor farm one can smell green beans.

Will they let him keep his powder-blue suit?
It disappears into the rending house of something useful,

for sky down on earth does nothing for the shovel.
An older woman at the historical society brings me

one photograph, 1950. She says, “I think they are beautiful,”
tapping the team of plow horses, but not the man

who drives them. Tractors can be heard in the photo
jamming up the horizon, and I won’t stick myself here.

I’ll even remove myself from the unframed picture of watching,
the doorway where I was born, the copulation back

in the old country beside the narrow-gauge trains
forcing their way across the forests and back to the sea,

past the white house with high ceilings, a careful garden
with bugs that threaten to eat the taut fruit through.

If I’m not told what to put
in those empty shoeboxes, I will make it up

to match these faces’ pallor. Call it a rest home,
father. Success and failure thrown past us

through the cattle car door to the dogs.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 2.

Michelle MattheesMichelle Matthees’s poems can be found in Pank, The Prose Poem Project, The Bellingham Review, Bloomsbury Review, Prove, and elsewhere. She is a current recipient of Minnesota State Arts Board Artist Initiative Grant and has received awards in the past from Intermedia Arts in Minneapolis, The Jerome Foundation, AWP, and other arts organizations. She lives in Duluth, Minnesota.

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