Tag Archives: October 2018

With Time
by Brian Satrom

I’m the one to hollow the pumpkin and carve a face.
The doorbell rings again. You adore the children
tonight in their costumes. A warm night.
We have no costumes, just the two of us
and the space between forming a shape we keep repeating.
My turn to go and hand out candy. We finally threw away
the photo from the booth that merged our faces,
a composite to show what a daughter of ours
might look like. She looked freaky not being real.
This isn’t yours alone to carry, isn’t your failure.
We won’t let us drift apart, but there’s nothing
to work on or figure out. With time you’ll say
your body doesn’t crave being a mother anymore.
You can’t say it now, your silence
a place into which I don’t know how to follow you.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.

Brian SatromBrian Satrom’s home is in Minneapolis, but he also lived in L.A. for many years, among other places, and completed an MFA at the University of Maryland. His poetry has appeared in journals like The Laurel Review, Poetry Northwest, MAYDAY Magazine, and TAB, the latter nominating his work for a Pushcart Prize. His book reviews have appeared in MAYDAY and on Colorado Review’s Center for Literary Publishing website.

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CPR Volume 20, Issue 3 is Now Online

October, 2018

Cider Press Review is very pleased to present new works by Alex Miller, Suzanne Rogier Marshall, Phillip Sterling, Sherry Rind, Susan Okie, Alyson Miller, Erica Bernheim, Allison Bird,Wendy Taylor Carlisle, Matt Mason, Chanel Brenner, John A. Nieves, David Sloan, Joannie Stangeland, Sara Moore Wagner, Avra Elliott, and Neelima Vinod. (New reviews expected as soon as I can post them!)

Enjoy the current issue at CPR Volume 20-3.

by Allison Bird Treacy


Month five: you carry a peach inside you.
The fetus covers itself in sparse fur. You may or may not
birth a child who looks like a seal as much as an infant,
inhabit a second caul in refusal of this world.


When my son was born behind the veil, I knew I was cursed.
He shrieked the inner skin through his mouth and became a wolf.
I had no midwife to counter my dread.


The boy shed everywhere. The first lanugo, the hair of his head,
skin such that he seems a snake. I wrap him in bandages
and a hood. I keep him home to protect us all. I black the windows.


No one can hide forever. Sailors come to beg
his body for their ships, call him temple, amulet.
No boat may be torn asunder with my boy aboard.
They do not fear him, but do not touch him either.


Boy gone or boy kept, I worry myself thin through the floor.
Unfed, I grow like my son: the fine hair of birth and hunger.
I crave the nearness of his body. I am the only boat he will board.


The longer he is gone, the more hair spreads
caresses the curve of my cheek, my hollow chest.
I lay more sod to the walls for warmth. Outside
I wear the full shearing of a sheep and tread gently.


What am I suppose to do with all of this fur,
my own, my boy’s, but felt it into the shape of a life?


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.

Allison Bird TreacyAllison Bird Treacy is a poet, essayist, and professional ghost, whose work grapples with issues of disabled embodiment and history, ecology, and the entanglement of both in myth and faith. Bird’s work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, VIDA, Buzzfeed, and elsewhere. She lives in the Pioneer Valley with her wife and too many cats.

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