Category Archives: CPR Volume 20, Issue 4

CPR Volume 20, Issue 4, January, 2019

I Have Trusted
by Chris Haven

I have trusted the smell of bread. I have trusted in the promise of hours. I have trusted in emptiness. I have trusted in repair. I have trusted the wind to remove the dead. I have trusted in the other side. I trust voice and echo. I have never trusted an animal but have been kept whole. I have trusted the invisible. I have trusted in cars and I have walked the sides of roads. I have trusted the bees and now I give them my children. I have trusted blankness and the order of words. I trust humiliation and beards. I have never trusted water. I have trusted the arc of a basketball, the camaraderie of sweat. I have trusted plumbers. I have trusted hands. I have trusted miracle. I trust the old songs. I have trusted in doing without. I have never met hope. I have rushed to the side of fear and have trusted in nearness. I have trusted in guardians and in the thin lie of my own guardianship. I have trusted in brands and ritual. I have trusted oil and the shudder of the desperate prayer. I trust age. Leave graves for the young to trust. I have trusted that forgiveness wears out and anger gets bored. I trust in periphery. I trust there is a core. I trust widely. I have not trusted enough.

 

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

Chris HavenChris Haven’s poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Blackbird, North American Review, Denver Quarterly, Atticus Review, Mud Season Review, Fence, and The Southern Review. Another poem appears in issue 13 of Cider Press Review. He teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan.

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In Their Own Image
by Alex Mouw

One mile from the concrete Bauhaus cathedral, down
a trail crisscrossed with roots and fallen birches,

stands an empty chapel dedicated to Mary. We enter
the thin painted door to huge spiders, black and brown,

pocked with bits of white and yellow, each waiting
for the moth wobbling around the rim of the ceiling light.

Hilary arrived before us. She’s sitting in the only chair
on the dusty tiled floor. While she is here on leave

from a doctorate in philosophy, her husband remains
in Texas with their year-old son, who’s watching

American Sign Language on a computer screen,
whose trach tube, wider than a straw, wheezes. His

working eye scans the colored spines of his mother’s
books. He drums with a toy horse on an empty soup bowl,

on Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, and the claw foot
of the couch. He will have another surgery when she

gets back. We ask why the wooden icon of Mary looks so
out of proportion, and Hilary tells us the monks make her

in their own image. See, she says, see how this one’s done
by intaglio, tiny eyes dug from the wood, hooded by her brow.

 

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

Alex MouwAlex Mouw’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Colorado ReviewSouthern Indiana ReviewTahoma Literary Reviewpoets.orgSouthword, and elsewhere. He also writes nonfiction and was recently selected as runner-up in Ruminate Magazine‘s VanderMey Nonfiction Prize. 

 

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Superman Is Not Real
by Claire Scott

Listen to a song which is a song of a boy seduced by batman by superman by green lantern which is the screech of a car a wicked thud hospitals MRIs CT scans which is the howl of a thousand tears a thousand tossed nights a thousand so-sorry-I-can’t-help-you’s which is the struggle of a young man who can scarcely see can barely walk body twisted torqued which is a song of a man who keeps on despite keeps on helping others despite keeps on offering the gift of himself despite which is a song sung in the key of love.

 

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

Claire ScottClaire Scott is an award winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.

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