Category Archives: CPR Volume 16, Issue 2

Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2, April, 2014

Garden Snails and Bird
by Carol Ellis

Two early morning snails curl together breathing the end. Their escape from wet grass become impossible they drown around their shells touch with the ground of their voices flooded saying hold me this one last time we leave together not alone our shells beautiful ready to be emptied of who we were come closer while we say that we felt each leaf each rose in brief color scent have you gone already tucked into your shell your face disappearing the memory of your heart beating me into the ground as you rise above in the beak of a bird.

The bird is the word between us. Fly, do not wait to walk make the rhythm of wings beat you into flight that is sight seeing itself see look over there look here answer the best question by asking even a better question no answers these complicated dances in the beak of a bird no one saw the bird but you flew where I would not see the implications.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.

Carol Ellis

Carol Ellis was born in Detroit, Michigan, and currently lives in Portland, Oregon. She’s been around the academic block with her Ph.D. in English from the University of Iowa. Her poetry chapbook, “I Want A Job,” has been published by Finishing Line Press.

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by Melanie Tague

I am sure the cavity of my chest
is vast—a rabbit hole. I never learned

how to swim after falling through
the life preserver. It was evening,

looking upward there was sun, or was it
the same light at the end

of the invisible puzzle you said was
of a train track tunnel. You placed pieces in the air

above you, as the lymph nodes waged
a blood war. They were chieftains chanting,

“pain is the only evil” “evil is the only
pain” “pain is the only way” “bow to

us, bow to us.” I don’t have
nine lives, maybe I have ten. I survived

the water, a weakening heart, numb limbs,
the blackouts, and puking red. Why

didn’t I come back the same? You touched
me in my dream. I woke up expecting

a dog lick, there was an empty fifth and
an aftertaste of chlorine in my mouth and acid

burning in my throat. It’s not
that I ever needed.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.

Melanie TagueMelanie Tague is a graduate of the University of Missouri—Columbia where she received her BA in History and Sociology. Currently, she lives in Columbia, MO and serves as a contributing editor for River Styx as well as a reviewer for Newpages. In the fall of 2014 she will be attending graduate school to obtain her MFA in Creative Writing.

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Crows clustered in the bruised light of dream
by Libby Bernardin

Here’s the way it was:

a house in a city near the ocean

monstrous rocks jutting out of waves

splashing on what little shore there is.

You would think how lovely

except for the crows,

why not chatter of seagulls,

the black-tipped wings of white pelicans.

But crows? These jutting rocks?

You might think those crows, those rocks—

solid matter, grounding,

but you, behind a veil of water,

tremble violin notes

swelter in the muggy air.

You pack your suitcase to catch the train

only to find you’ve left your book,

the one you’ve written.

And there in the sky, the crows have it,

pick at each other

tear at the pages.

Those crows in the bruised light, that train leaving.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.

Libby Bernardin

Libby Bernardin is a South Carolina poet and teacher of fiction, poetry, and journalism.

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