Category Archives: CPR Volume 18, Issue 4

by David White

In the ruins of the earth
twelve hundred saints are
biding their time—taking alms
from the smoke of gray dawns.

The tarantula eats the eggs of autumn,
handles them in its mandibles delicately.
The mountain grows with dusk.
Near the edge of town an old half-blind
man burns his trash, brings forth
licking green flames and a cinder stench.

The children are ready to wander,
the parents are ready to weed,
the lonely men are simply ready,
and the spectacular spider picks
the sweet stench of a rotting candy apple.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.

David L. WhiteDavid L. White currently teaches creative writing in Tempe, Arizona. His poetry has previously appeared in THRUSH Poetry Journal, Salamander, The Briar Cliff Review, Potomac Review, Southwestern American Literature, PRISM international, and elsewhere.

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Oil and Pieta
by Alyssa Jewell

I keep my distance from the closets, the picture frames,
never wanted to know their contents yet thought of them: black

and white linens, tin smiles, all the glittered hayfields. We know
each other by the spaces in between the floorboards, reach around

the electrical to touch, and when the cords spark a little, well,
we ask why we even bother. Look at the alternative, I say, peel tinfoil

from the frosting jar, light spiraled candles and float them flickering
downriver. I painted a canvas in gold flecks as a way of talking a little while

about the year, then watched it fall from plaster walls like a tight snap
of the wrist and so hung it again with precision, with all the ginger and sour

these beautiful, cracked fingertips could give, then walked away.
This is how loneliness begins and how we know the hollowness

of the hills, the steel floored grocery stores, shopping carts rolling
toward the curbside, toward skeleton trees that invite us to drift among them,

to move with the emptiness of a hand trying to cup the wind, but instead
I pluck the juniper, prefer pink houses tipping sideways on street corners, families

swinging in doorways, in window frames, pumping their arms and legs
toward cirrus feather skies and a light that slices through the gardens and

laced in rusty vines, the still good grapes for ice wine, the still good grapes
for a still life painted in shadows, painted in oil, in yellow and green and

The best way to know a subject is to taste it, fall into it headfirst
like Michelangelo sleeping away midnight on marble, knowing it well enough

to retrieve human form out of infatuation and love for proportions of shoulders,
the luminescence of stone turned to cloak but not cloaking the sorrows of the heart:

preservation of the miracle that anyone ever lived through the sham
of here and now and did so with tips of noses, ear lobes, and brows

set bold, palms open in an honesty about want, a lap as a cradle,
as a grave, a gaze fixed on most anyone, never abandoned or shying away.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.

Alyssa JewellAlyssa Jewell studies poetry at Western Michigan University where she served as assistant editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and is currently an assistant poetry editor for Third Coast.

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by Carlie Hoffman

Each time I meet with God
he is still singing and jealous
of the way I’ve learned to speak
with my hands. By autumn
I am drunk in the bathtub again.
The water is warm. I think of December
and the Christmas trees sold
along the Singel, the flower market
brimming with black coats.
Like pine, I am desperate to be lit.
God tells me I am embarrassing
at love. I tell him he is lucky,
all mighty, but all voice.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.

Carlie HoffmanCarlie Hoffman is from New Jersey. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Gulf Stream Literary Magazine, Nashville Review, Jai-Alai Magazine, and Canary: A Literary Journal of Environmental Crisis.

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