Tag Archives: CPR Volume 20-4

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 AnthonyWriter.com.

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Contusion
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.

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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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