Category Archives: CPR Volume 20, Issue 4

CPR Volume 20, Issue 4, January, 2019

While Your Husband Is Drinking in Dallas
by Anthony DiPietro

A belt, a pair of shoes, oil stain on the driveway—
these can be incriminating. Someone drank mojito,
danced merengue,
he may think on Sunday—
only we haven’t. We just stand in the living room

—not the arch but the middle—staring, and daring each other.
You mention a documentary. Maps of brain waves music makes
in the minds of all animals. You show me their shape
with vigorous thrusting of hands, soon lose your breath—

I almost finish your sentence. Music is so
important, is all you can say. We agree there are things
more important. Exhibit A. Places you’ve never been.
I don’t mean the moon, or the eye of a bulb, I mean

where your instincts have no meaning. You could be stranded
and sniffing the air for a fire—you know who will come
to your rescue. Who’s to rescue me?
That’s why I crave being outside my skin

and in someone else’s. I sigh when I tell you this.
I use your first name with certain intimacy. Exhibit B.
Earth doesn’t care, and the sun’s a waiting machine gun.
After the supernova they’ll find me in the Arizona desert

writing on the backs of turtle shells about my dead aunt’s
lipstick, a story I’ve been trying to tell for years.
This is when you turn on the fans, the dishwasher, hairdryer,
television—all to distract my intention.

Images move a mile a minute
across the screen. I talk about driving the Loneliest Highway
and suddenly realize I’ve seen you before: digging in sand
under rock on the side of the road—hiding

twelve months of the year in the only shade you can find.
twelve months of sun are like twelve months of snow
which reminds me of causes of sin. Being good for too long,
you’re bound to end up doing something wrong.

The spirit, I’ve learned, isn’t much of anything except
perhaps and intersection. Let me be clear:
I want to move a mile a minute
under your thriving, pitching sun.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.

Anthony DiPietroAnthony DiPietro is a Rhode Island native who worked for 12 years in community-based organizations that addressed issues such as violence, abuse, and income inequality. In 2016, he moved to New York to join Stony Brook University as a candidate for a creative writing MFA and now teaches undergraduate courses. His writing has received fellowships from Aspen Summer Words, The Frost Place, Key West Literary Seminars, and Stony Brook University. His website is

See all items about Anthony DiPietro

Visit Anthony DiPietro’s contributors page.

by Jessica Rigney

Do not put your hand inside me
today, for today I bleed and have legs
which do not carry me all the way to you.

Instead place your hand of stone
upon my belly and make of me a song
for my own sorrow in this hibernal

cycle of the last station, its round
and insubstantial dwindle. Make
of me a woman untroubled by

infernal soughs of branches clenched
firm between thick rime and fading
light. Do not string me between your arms

today, for this day I am split
and vital fluids seep from multifaceted rents
in the weave of my lively body. Among

your careful limbs instead let me fall.
Let me continue this pitch into a perfect
circle of your careful breaths. Make

of me a weight for my own worry, a dense
sound composition authored by your forehead—
your forehead upon my bruise in bloom.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.

Jessica RigneyJessica Rigney is a poet, artist, and filmmaker. Her works have appeared in various journals and can be found as letterpress broadsides with Wolverine Farm Publishing. She was a quarter-finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry in 2016 and 2018. Find her performing her poetry with local bands along the Colorado front range where she makes her home. She is poetjess on Instagram.

See all items about Jessica Rigney

Visit Jessica Rigney’s contributors page.

by Christine Degenaars

I am living and have lost
all my skin. I’ve taken to codeine, to cariprazine,

to the rushing sound blood makes in my ear
when I press against the pillow. Sometimes, I look

at something so hard I forget how to breathe.
I leave no space for taking in. I become round, bloated with

starvation. When I was ten, I wrote Vincent’s candle poem
on pieces of post it and hid them in the rooms of places

I’d visit. I imagined suitcases of yellow bits, each marked
by the body of a chewed pen cap. God said he is

what he is because there is nothing else
worth comparing to. I am a mixed tape of that stuff

that gets left in the subway. I am pieces of cardboard,
broken glass, the half-eaten something poking out of the trash.

When I was fifteen, I kissed a boy I didn’t want
to. He smelled like plastic and brown paper bags.

He sang Hard Luck Woman when he drove and when he called my name it sounded

like something that didn’t belong to me.
This morning, I stepped out of myself long

enough to see me as two. One of us slipped off
my clothes, the other turned my flesh upside down.

I took a shower. Wrapped in a towel, I made coffee;
naked, I stood in the kitchen. There was so much

me in that room, I could barely move.
I had stacked so many versions of myself, one

on top of the other, in the freezer for safekeeping that
I had left no room for my own body, hollow and swollen.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 4.

Christine DegenaarsChristine Degenaars has had work published in several journals, including KGB Bar & Lit Journal, Sundog Lit, and Hermeneutic Chaos. She is the recipient of two Bishop Kelleher Awards and an honorable mention for the Bennington Award. She currently lives in New York City.

See all items about Christine Degenaars

Visit Christine Degenaars’s contributors page.