Category Archives: CPR Volume 14, Issue 1

Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1, July, 2012

The Lonely Architect Walks His House at Night, by Aran Donovan

made of lock, made of key, made of bone
and long windows. made gently, piece
on piece, paving stones selected, set—
leading to the door or away again.
premises sealed. made hollow, made arches
holding up white ceilings, wide
the length of time for sun to reach
across each room. unnecessary moon
erasing the warmth of afternoon
still in the floors. hardwood, a hanging
platform built indoors. o knots and planks,
a narrow boat to cross
from bank to bank. toll of pennies tossed.
who keeps these gates? house not means
but place—desert, now undone, dissolved
in sand, peeling away in ants.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.

Aran DonovanAran Donovan is an MFA student in poetry and translation at the University of Arkansas. She likes it there. Her poetry has appeared in Phoebe and is forthcoming in Southern Poetry Review and Rhino.

See all items about Aran Donovan

Visit Aran Donovan’s contributors page.

The Wry Scientist, by Mercedes Lawry

The wry scientist feels heroics are unnecessary.
She shirks the convoluted equations and heads
for the atomic heart. The orbit of thought sliced
by need, dissected by a frivolous narrative
and neatly stacked by the bed. Hence, dreams
without effort. Little bird feet tick tacking
on a page, the world is a cage, is a series of
clashing explanations like greens, winter,
spring, what grows and dies to a sad, skint twig.
She is no mother of mercy. She is no shrill Cassandra.
Let’s all spin, she thinks, till we fall down,
proving a point in the garbled scheme of the world.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.

Mercedes Lawry has published in Poetry, Rhino, Nimrod, Poetry East and elsewhere. She’s published two chapbooks: There Are Crows in My Blood & Happy Darkness, fiction & stories & poems for children.

See all items about Mercedes Lawry

Visit Mercedes Lawry’s contributors page.

Algebra is ____________ . (fill in the blank), by Daye Phillippo

suddenly upon me, like the yellow-green skies of severe weather

the opposite of transcendental

that gray, rust-streaked boxcar―inscrutable graffiti tags― rattling empty through town

intrusive. My walk to the mailbox has become -f(x+4) – 2 with a domain of [0,4]

too dangerous to meet at the dining room table while wearing pink pajamas

unlike birds that sing in spring because they’ve never heard of it

my son’s blue, beat-up ’89 Buick, repaired, but still less than the reunion of its broken parts

the opposite of wildflowers

a jackhammer in the city of summer

filled with pointy radical signs and my mother warning, "Don’t run with sharp objects!"

better than smallpox, the Dust Bowl, or the Johnstown Flood

a clumsy gymnast whapping and flipping around the x-axis suspended between my ears

similar to constellations, but without their romance

not poetry

poetry in the way subtraction can become addition as in the pruning of pear trees

as exponential as Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

a blackbird caged in the fractal of a leafless pear tree after harvest

blackbird, its bill a less-than sign pointing toward everything not itself


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.

Daye Phillippo has lived her life backward. She is the mother of eight who is studying Creative Writing at Purdue University. She lives in a creaky, old Indiana farmhouse on twenty rural acres with her husband, Mark, and their two youngest sons. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Plainsongs, North Central Review, Shenandoah and others. She holds a degree in Creative Writing from Purdue University. She lives in Indiana.

See all items about Daye Phillippo

Visit Daye Phillippo’s contributor’s page.