Category Archives: CPR Volume 15, Issue 2

Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2, April 2013

by Sandra Kohler

The day you leave for a trip on which
you’ll drive treacherous mountain roads alone
for hours, I rehearse losing you, absurd gesture,
useless practice for bearing the unbearable.
The day seems autumnal, or perhaps a cold
late August day when summer’s green’s gone
gray, bleak. It’s June. The farm a mile down
the road is harvesting strawberries. This morning
the husband of a college classmate emails our
list to tell us she died yesterday: news we expected,
he’s watched her agon for weeks, waiting. Still,
he tells us, most of us strangers, “my heart is
broken.” Loss surprises, breaks us every time.

That night I dream I’m watching a car I seem
to be driving stop in front of our house, pick up
a box of strawberries from the curb, drive
around the corner. I expect to hear me climbing
the basement stairs, opening the back door,
become two embodiments of myself, able to be
in two places at once by perceiving I am. Only
when I don’t hear myself come in do I realize
it wasn’t me driving, there aren’t two of me.
Someone’s stolen my car, my strawberries,
my place. The self who’s driven off, taking
the berries, the sweetness of my life, and
won’t come back, has abandoned me to loss.

The next morning a gray blowing world
waits, a green changing world. Clouds full
to bursting or not, weather shifting to storm
or clearing. You phone, you’re on your way.
When you get home hours ahead of time,
surprising and not surprising me, it’s so good
to have you here it’s heartbreaking. I’m
ashamed at thinking this, as if the suffering
of others were a play from which I’ve taken
a few memorized lines. I dish out strawberries,
pour the wine. We’re easy, full of laughter.
In the wings, necessity threatens. I pretend
we are the ones you never hear of, unheroic,
carried off by joy before the ending.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2.

Sandra Kohler’s third collection of poems, Improbable Music, appeared in May, 2011 from Word Press. Her previous books are The Ceremonies of Longing (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003), and The Country of Women (Calyx Books, 1995).

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April Canto
by Lois Marie Harrod


At 5 am there is no song
in the black window.
The stage before the performance
and after.


I want to translate
the cardinal
give his tweets
a crimson feel.


When I wrote
the famous poet,
she did not answer.


What are you
afraid of,
will recognize
your cowardice?


The most difficult
is the one you
believe in.


Forget it,


I want to be
the mockingbird
that can sing
any song
like the opera diva
who sings musicals
and once on the sidewalk
hip hop.


More of this
when the cardinal
quicks the apple blossoms.


Too early
for love songs.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2.

Lois Marie Harrod won the Tennessee Chapbook Prize 2012 (Poems & Plays) with her manuscript The Only Is. Her 11th book, Brief Term, poems about teaching, was published by Black Buzzard Press (2011), and her chapbook Cosmogony won the 2010 Hazel Lipa Chapbook contest (Iowa State University).

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Impression, Nightfall
by Jéanpaul Ferro

Across the daybreak of downtown a tenpin of
rock dove goes to rise west, floating midair like
magnolia hovering in the waters of an artisan’s
bowl; as effortless as your smile; the air, cold;
the arms of Roger Williams’s statue up in Memorial
Park opening wide out toward his beloved city
of Providence down below;

we walk the crowded city streets arm in arm now,
pedestrians crossing the pavement in these open
air intervals, all the stoplights flashing green one after
another, the redolence of Melanzane al Forno coming
from around every corner; Tony, the dancing cop waving
his arms about like Big Bird over on Weybosset and

soon nightfall arrives, the rivers lit up wild with waterfire,
floating pyres atop the Woonasquatucket and Moshassuck
rivers, gondolas full of merrymakers making hay going
downstream, the city fire throwers swinging in tango,
the intercourse of fire meeting girls, blue RISD stars
shining bright like lanterns right up in the treetops of
the courtyards, the marble dome of the state house awash
in this cherry blossom light;

and when I am with you like this all the city clocks seem
to begin spinning backwards like Dali is behind this all,
all those heartaches and ticks in your heart … I see them
right there in this uninhabited place when you smile, scars
disappearing after each amen we place gently down in the
glittering jewel box that is this night—the stars raining over
us over at the edge of the city near the old arched bridge,
where we once fell in love long ago.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 2.

Jéanpaul Ferro is a novelist, short fiction author, and poet from Providence, Rhode Island.  He is the author of Essendo Morti – Being Dead (Goldfish Press, 2009), nominated for the 2010 Griffin Prize in Poetry; and Jazz (Honest Publishing, 2011), nominated for both the 2012 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Prize and the 2012 Griffin Prize in Poetry.

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