Tag Archives: Volume 15-4

How to Make a Palimpsest
by Katherine Durham Oldmixon

before it was a metaphor

First scrape fat from skin,
turn to sun what never felt light,
in vitriol bathe open wounds,
sear to yellow the inner vellum
until flesh and hair no longer seem animal matter.
Some fold quarto, others folio;
make flocks of pages to lay in wait.

Sharpen a feather,
dip the shaft in iron gall.
Write angel-pin philosophy,
the brewer’s daily tabs,
a festal grocery list, poems
and psalms for a choir gathered to praise
God. Until you think, no more:

Take a knife to dead hymns,
rub out names, erase histories,
cut leaves to strips, use them within
other spines, wood or bone shells.
So buried is living in the skeletons
and tissues we open on velvet cradles.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.

Katherine Durham Oldmixon lives in Austin, TX, where she teaches writing and literature and directs the writing program at historic Huston-Tillotson University. She is co-director of the Poetry at Round Top Festival and a senior poetry editor for Tupelo Quarterly. Her poems appear online in Qarrtsiluni, Poemeleon, and Solstice magazines, as well as in many print journals and anthologies and in her chapbook Water Signs (Finishing Line Press, 2009).

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For Knives, Bridges, and Balconies,
by Devon J. Moore

The pears I bought and put in the glass bowl are cinnamon stick red
and rough. Pleasurable it is, the cutting them up and the looking.

Question: What couldn’t you help but do in a room where one wall
is a window? Answer: See all the other rooms you’re not in.

The improbability of probability is a law we know. One day it snowed,
it hailed, it rained, but we were surprised when the sun shone.

Once you slept in a hotel room next to a balcony
and the back of your soon to be ex-lover was a ledge. You are still

backing away.

All this pathos looks the same. Even if she’s not
the one who jumped off a bridge, she is.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.

Devon J. Moore

Devon J. Moore hails from Buffalo, NY with a lot of time spent growing in Wilmington, NC. She currently lives in Syracuse, NY where she teaches writing at Syracuse University and SUNY Oswego. Her poetry manuscript was a semi-finalist for the University of Wisconsin Press Brittingham and Felix Pollak Prizes in 2013.

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by Sarah Estes

We watched the wooden frames of farmhouses
groan and crumble, heave towards the water
then fall prostrate against the indifferent sky.

My father readied the final meals of my childhood,
sheer yellow curtains shifted warily in the breeze.
Mother was on a diet, quietly peeling chicken fat
in the living room while she watched the waters rise.

Downtown, where the water had grown by fifty feet,
the flag bobbed in the current, relieved finally

of its heavy weight.

Mud became our country and dusk became our home,

arms pregnant with swollen bags of sand,

the thud-thud beat of plaintive walls weakening
as the season of rains wore on.

And then the song rising, the long drone
of mosquitoes over a sullen stretch of beach.
Full then faltering then fleeing into silence.

The taste of death on the wind—her fragrant
and final ambition. The insatiable hunger for

peach-scented flesh,

your black-eyed stone.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.

Sarah EstesSarah Estes’s work has appeared in The Atlantic, Christian Science Monitor, Agni, Cimarron, Crab Orchard Review, Field, New Orleans Review, Southern Review and elsewhere. She obtained an MFA from the University of Virginia as a Hoynes Fellow, and a master’s in religion and culture from Harvard.

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