Tag Archives: Rhiannon Thorne

Volume 17, Issue 2 is now online

vol17iss2_cover_webCider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2 is now online. Enjoy new poems and reviews by Katherine L. Holmes, Hillary Kobernick, M Ross Henry, Richard Dinges, Jr., Mario Melendez, Eloisa Amezcua, David Koehn, Lois P. Jones, Rhiannon Thorne, Katie Manning, Meredith McDonough, Devon Miller-Duggan, Francesca Bell, George Drew, Virginia Bell, Maggie Rosen, Colleen Michaels, Michael Albright, Karen Terrey, Judith Montgomery, Catherine Hodges, Ross Losapio, Billy Reynolds, Ed Bennett, Gary Leasing and Raphael Kosek.

Iberian Tour
by Rhiannon Thorne

The year in Spain, eating pork and
kissing dark-haired men, I had a big jaw. I took
the peninsula by his waist and held on
through the cities, learning the tongues
of the Mediterranean and taking trains
through olive fields. In Oporto I pressed up

against plain shower tiles and a man
with two earrings. The hostel keeper
made me Portuguese spaghetti, the beef blended
completely into red sauce. In the back streets
I mimicked directions, hooted out broken Castillian,
laughed through it with a cop,

ordered vin blanc at lunch. In Barcelona,
I cracked against the bathroom tile, moved
liked a wooden doll for days: strings tight and
jittery. A Catholic Sunday is a hard day
to find an open pharmacy. Over-zealous,
I split open my thumb snapping tiny glass vials
to taste their bitterness. San Sebastian,

the northern coast, laid himself out like a
banquet. I walked from bar to bar gorging tapas
and drinking mostly cheap as possible.
In the night: a discoteque by the beach,
still a bit nippy off season and full of locals,
I picked a man to slip beneath the faucet,
the pattern echoing. And every night Madrid,

the same 50¢ bottle of vino tinto, true wino heaven
in a ten by six blue bedroom. In the living room
there were three shifting tiles and a partially working
wooden chandelier. On our couch with hideous pillows,
my roommate tried to put his tongue behind my teeth. Later
I slept with his best friend, a man with

barrel legs from La Palma. In the morning
I hitched my bag over my shoulder, his limbs still tangled
in cheap Ikea sheets, to catch the train. Normalmente,
son los muchachos que se vayan
he offered as I
was closing my bedroom door. I thought:
no, it’s always me who leaves.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 2.

Rhiannon ThorneRhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming most recently in Foundling Review, Midwest Quarterly, Words Dance, and Conclave. I also edit the online publication cahoodaloodaling and may be reached at rhiannonthorne.com.

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