Tag Archives: Brian Patrick Heston

CPR Best of Volume 16 Now Available

CPR Volume 16 Front CoverAfter more than a week of stuffing envelopes, the hard-copy “Best of Volume 16” Cider Press Review is on its way to contributors, subscribers, and former Book Award contest entrants.

The “Best of” issue features poems by Rebecca Baggett, Carol Berg, Jennifer Jackson Berry, Maggie Blake, Ace Boggess, John Bradley, Christine Butterworth-McDermott, Sharon Chmielarz, Lisa J. Cihlar, Joan Colby, Michael Collins, Gemma Cooper-Novack, Jimmie Cumbie, Carol V. Davis, Paul Dickey, Iris Jamahl Dunkle, Carol Ellis, Sarah Estes, David Eye, Evelyn Clark Farbman, Shawn Fawson, Janice Greenwood, David Hathwell, Gary Hawkins, Sara Henning, Brian Patrick Heston, Louisa Howerow, Ann Hudson, Amie Keddy, Heather Lang, Susanna Lang, Mercedes Lawry, Bernadette McBride, Amy Meckler, Colleen Michaels, Nancy Carol Moody, Carolyn Moore, Mary Moore, Susannah Nevison, Amy Newday, Autumn Newman, Sharon Olson, Mary Elizabeth Parker, Lynn Pedersen, Kevin Phan, Katherine Rauk, Geri Rosenzweig, Michael G. Smith, Heather Sommer, Sarah Sousa, Joannie Stangeland, Kelly Terwilliger, Lisken Van Pelt Dus, Ryan Vine, Donna Vorreyer, Chelsea Wagenaar, Mark Wagenaar, Marq Wilson, Laura Madeline Wiseman, Anne Harding Woodworth, Matthew Zingg. Book reviews by Ken Hada and Gary Leising.

To order your own or extra copies, please visit the CPR Bookstore.

The Yetis of Fairmount Park
by Brian Patrick Heston

We sat on our knees in front of the TV,
stuffing our mouths with pumpkin pie
as the British narrator interviewed bugged out
mountain climbers who described how
on their exhausted way to the summit,
they encountered footprints too big to be human—
too human to be a bear’s. Then Vaughn’s
older brother, Pete, started telling us
how he saw them in Fairmount Park.
We were small, so we couldn’t go there alone.
We needed mothers or fathers to take us
(if you happened to have a father).
We started to dream turkeys and Himalayas,
distant gobbling peaks that shadowed
I-95, the Art Museum, and even towering
baby blue Liberty Place. All I could see
through blurry storm were fangs bucktoothing
from beneath black buckled hats.
Everything else was a guess (the show
didn’t say what they really looked like).
Vaughn described their pointy tails.
He was religious, so everything became
angel or devil. Boo said they were
part wolf—part rat. “In this city, yo,
everything got to have a little rat in it.”

The week before in social studies,
Mrs. McNally told us about that first Thanksgiving,
the Indians and Pilgrims getting along so well.
Pete told us it was all bullshit. How after
the Pilgrims were saved by the Indians,
they killed off every “goddamned Indian.”
“But I wasn’t even there,” I pleaded to Pete.
“So,” he said. “You think history gives a fuck
about you?” So in my blizzarding sleep,
faces began to appear: Mom, Dad, and my sister
Jude, our candy-giving science teacher,
Mr. Simmons—even Gram-gram. We all had
sneering faces pale as snow, muskets ready
at our shoulders. Eventually, I stopped listening
to Pete. Then he was shot for his Jordan’s
on Kingsessing Avenue, two up-close bullets
to his chest finding his heart.
After that, I stopped dreaming monsters.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 4.

Brian Patrick HestonBrian Patrick Heston grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  His poetry and fiction have appeared in such publications as Many Mountains Moving, Rosebud, Lost Coast Review, West Branch, Harpur Palate, 5AM, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Poet Lore, South Carolina Review, and is upcoming in Tampa Review. Presently, he is a PhD candidate in Literature and Creative Writing at Georgia State University.

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