Tag Archives: John A. Nieves

April
by John A. Nieves

It’s still gnat light over the porch

steps. The creak near the front of the board

you’d stand on and draw in

night had gone out,

had left its voice in the just-spring sounds,

in the not-yet-violent warmings. I almost

see the way you’d turn when I tapped

the glass. I almost hear you call

me to the door. The magnolia’s waxy leaves

send what’s left of the sun back

at me as smudges. The children in the yard

behind ours shriek backwards

from ten. I’m sure someone is hiding.

I’m sure the rags of their voices are

oiling the fear valves of one

particular heart. The dogs know this

and join in. The possum by the garage

pulls back and I want to ask you if you want

to come in. But the steps

are fully in my view and they hold

nothing but my attention.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.

John A. NievesJohn A. Nieves won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio (2014), won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is an Assistant Professor of English at Salisbury University. He received his M.A. from University of South Florida and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.

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CPR Volume 18, Issue 5 is now online.

Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 5, is now online. Yeah, you heard right…, Issue 5. We’re shifting our new volume year to begin in April starting in 2017. For now, enjoy a special BONUS issue to Volume 18 with new poems by Laura Falsetti, Sara Henning, Elizabeth Onusko, Alyssa Jewell, John A. Nieves, Hayden Saunier, Wendy Drexler, Wendy Taylor Carlisle, Alina Borger, Sarah Carleton, Allyson Jeffredo, Wendy DeGroat, Charlotte Covey, Judith Montgomery, Carmen Germain, and Christopher Citro. Stay tuned later in the month for new reviews by Jeff Whitney and Barbara L. Estrin.

Recessional (Albus)
by John A. Nieves

I remember not being able to remember
this rock. I used to stand six feet above
it and never see the striated gray, the channels
cut by ice so recently run to sea. As a boy,

I’d sprint and slide dangerously close
to the edge, to the rumbling breakers and bobbing
blades. Now I get nostalgic staring back
toward the white wall half a mile from where

I used to touch it, used to slip along its slick
face. It slithered away toward the base

of the low hills I always thought were
more ice. I learned gone here, dangling
our feet over the edge, holding hands as the past
drew irrevocably back from the lapping waves.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 5.

John A. NievesJohn A. Nieves won the Indiana Review Poetry Contest and his first book, Curio (2014), won the Elixir Press Annual Poetry Award Judge’s Prize. He is an Assistant Professor of English at Salisbury University. He received his M.A. from University of South Florida and his Ph.D. from the University of Missouri.

See all items about John A. Nieves

Visit John A. Nieves’s contributors page.