Category Archives: CPR Volume 17, Issue 4

Orpheus, Ascending
by M.K. Foster

out of the underworld, doesn’t yet know it’s only ever been in his nature
to, looking back, lose everything: maybe what we know of love is not
unlike what we know of death. Even now, years after, my grandmother
still wears her dead husband’s clothes around their house, drapes herself

in faded golf shirts twice her size to garden or sleep. She says they still smell
like him,
tells me about the handgun she keeps under the pillow on once-his
side of their bed, —things I think about when you take my hand and help me
into your bathtub to smoke cigarettes through the cinderblock window hole

in the wall. We breathe out standing in a wintered dark blacker than burned
animal skin, flick our ashes like dead stars into the standing water of the sink,
and I won’t say what I’m thinking there, won’t tell you this is how I want you
when I’m with you,
but maybe later. And if later, then only this: Listen to me,

from here, there is no way back for either of us—turning away will always feel the way
burning sounds.
No,—not even that. This: I love you the way suicide loves porcelain.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.

M.K. FosterM.K. Foster’s poetry won the 2013 Gulf Coast Poetry Prize and has been recognized with an Academy of American Poets Prize. She holds an M.F.A. from the University of Maryland, College Park and currently pursues a Ph.D.

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Naked of Parenthesis
by Ivonne Gordon Carrera

Translated by Cindy Rinne

“Go sweep out the chamber of your heart.
Make it ready to be the dwelling place of the Beloved.”
Mahmud Shabistari

Imagination appears not ready for false steps.

The word slows down for the afternoon. Waits

among question marks, pauses naked of parenthesis.

The imagination seeks memories on the path

of the afternoon, listens to the silence, and says I exist

despite the wind. Disappearing into the magic spell, I listen

to the undertones of my body, to the rhythm of words,

in mutant syllables. The word arrives empty of thought

and exclamations, moving towards me. I express who I am

with sound, and I prepare myself to swing from a light,

suddenly freefalling. I cross the street to the other sidewalk,

and I touch the uprooted sanctuary between today

and a constant conjugated present.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.

Ivonne Gordon CarreraIvonne Gordon Carrera was born in Quito, Ecuador. She is a poet, literary critic, and literary translator. She has a Ph.D from the University of Callifornia, Irvine in Latin American Literature. She is a Professor of Latin American Literature at the University of Redlands. Her work has been translated to English, Polish, and Flemish. www.ivon-vailakis.com
 

Cindy RinneCindy Rinne creates art and writes in San Bernardino, CA. She co-authored with Michael Cooper Speaking Through Sediment (ELJ Publications). Cindy’s book, Quiet Lantern, is forthcoming (Turning Point) and spider with wings is forthcoming (Jamii Publishing).

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To Preserve November
by Sarah Ann Winn

1. Begin by shaping your mouth into the shape of your mother’s when she was concentrating, or pinning a hem, her lips more full of barbs than usual.

2. Unravel the right front pocket of your favorite jeans, until you can poke your index finger through its new hole.

3. From that space, produce the long lost engagement ring of your great aunt, left to you in her will, as she saw only potential for crafting, was blind to your gift for loss.

4. Go into your garden in the full snow moon. Cut the dried lunaria, the money plant’s branches, the ones most full of pods. Make sure that you have the exact number of dried pods which always filled the tall vase in the hall this time of year.

5. While you are still in the garden, do a silhouette tracing of the gingko, outlining each crenellated leaf. Once indoors, cast these in gold, chain glittering cameos of each leaf to their proper cousins. Dangle them over the railing up your front steps.

6. Draw from memory the lace of your daughter’s bridal veil. Train a pair of delicately whorled snails to trace the lines over and over. Set them free, surprise her with the glimmering replica on your stoop when she returns home.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.

Sarah-Ann-WinnSarah Ann Winn lives in Virginia. Her poems have appeared or will appear in Amazon.com’s Day One, Bayou Magazine, Massachusetts Review, Quarterly West, and RHINO, among others. Her chapbook, Portage, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications this winter. Visit her at http://bluebirdwords.com or follow her @blueaisling on Twitter.

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