Category Archives: CPR Volume 20, Issue 3

CPR Volume 20, Issue 3, October, 2018

Blood from a Turnip
by Sara Moore Wagner

My father’s lungs are full
of fungus, great balls of fungus
fibers. Blood clots in the sinuses.
The doctors go in with knives up, masks:
Tear them out by the roots,
or the carve away at him piece by piece.
He calls to say I still can’t breath—
coughs up so much blood
the plywood walls collapse,
the dividers, the hospital.
We are out in the yard
with the wild turkey he raised
from chick. I want to hold
the waste of his breath,
the round mucus gobs
in my hands to show him
I know how to care
for something, too—I know
how to take care of myself
better than this. I want to ask
him how he let himself get so far
gone that the mold grows even
on his insides. And how much
is inside me, then—how much
of him is left in me. How much
will I still need to cut away.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.

Sara Moore WagnerSara Moore Wagner is the Cincinnati-based author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gulf Stream, Gigantic Sequins, Stirring, Reservoir, and Arsenic Lobster, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and was a recent finalist for the Tishman Review’s Edna St Vincent Millay Prize. She’s also a mother of three. Find her at

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Making Grandpa’s Stuffing
by Avra Elliott

an elegy

Digging ice from a turkey’s neck
to excavate it from the cavity
is what I thought surgery must be like,

frozen fingers, and the satisfaction
of pulling a bag of organs and twisted neck
free from ribs dyed pink with blood.

Dick and balls, my mother labeled them,
but even as a child I knew that balls
were in twos, and these deep fleshy stones

were more fascinating, more valued (I still
love the sensation of dicing livers with
knives).But I’ll say the neck is a dick.

As a child I knew bodies are
warm, surgeries aren’t feasts, deaths
are months of survivors

sharing body heat on winter nights
and a relative’s hard turkey neck
pressed against you when he hugs, hands

ever slipping under your fuzzy purple sweater
under lights by a lake where he apologizes
once, but in surprise, as though he also doesn’t

know why this happens. When the turkey has
died there is no funeral. No one will pay. No

one will come.

and this removal isn’t what you expected,

like reaching into a cavity and finding nothing
but an icy pink hollow.
Freeze that burns.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.

Avra ElliottAvra Elliott is a writer and toymaker from New Mexico. A graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College, Elliott’s fiction has been published in Sweet Tree Review, Shadowgraph Quarterly and Noctua Review where she was runner-up for the Neo Americana Fiction Contest. Her chapbook, Desert Selkie, was a semifinalist for the 2018 Sunken Garden Poetry Prize, and her poetry has appeared in Tinderbox, Tupelo Quarterly, Jam Tarts, llanot Review, Red Paint Hill, Birds Piled Loosely, Indianapolis Review, Barrow Street and Fairy Tale Review.

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by Neelima Vinod

A sudden inspection—
The woman in her white coat
with a silver needle like a sword to
puncture your vanity case,
you thought they didn’t make those sturdy green boxes any more
but it’s still there, put your hands up, reeeeeeelax, breathe,

You are white as the whites in your eyes and
your teeth tell you that winter is a season in your body.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.

Neelima VinodNeelima Vinod is a writer in Bangalore, India. She has written an eBook and her articles have been published in magazines and newspapers.

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