Tag Archives: Volume 19-1

Dad, My Nipples Hurt
by Charles Harper Webb

Now the drawbridge lifts, boyhood left
diddling Legos on the other side. Now

Hun-like hormones start their thundering
ride. Studying puberty at school,

he thought he was immune, voice still
shrill as a girl’s. Now—soon!—sweaty

armpit-and-crotch-trolls will turn their cranks
and squeeze out hair. Soon seeds of life

will spurt at night. The signal-fires
girls burn on hills he laughed at last year

will enflame his brain. Soon every car
will hiss, “Drive me,” as foremen-cells yell,

“Stretch! Swell! Grow!” and pitch’s
paratroops plunge from his voice-box,

down. Stalled at the Chest / Breast crossroads,
mammary glands cry, “Which way?”

Soon my son will say, in a full baritone,
“Pass the pasta, please,” meaning, “Pass

your beaten-downness into my huge, hairy
hands.”

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.

Charles Harper Webb’s latest book, Brain Camp, was published by the University of Pittsburgh Press in 2015. A Million MFAs Are Not Enough, a book of essays on contemporary American poetry, is forthcoming from Red Hen Press in 2016. Recipient of grants from the Whiting and Guggenheim foundations, Webb teaches Creative Writing at California State University, Long Beach.

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Quiet sex in paper rooms
by Samantha Ten Eyck

Some day you find yourself
in Korea in a room where you
sleep on the floor with white
down blankets stained
by the strawberries your lover
ate perilously. The couple
you traveled with shift about
the paper castle, their slippers
making soft apologies to the floor
and you wonder why this feels
particularly good and then you see
the light shining through the paper
in between the latticed wooden door,
paper so taut it makes you feel crisp
and dangerous, like the whole
thing could tear itself apart at any
moment now. Any moment now.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.

Samantha Ten EyckSamantha Ten Eyck is a teacher of yoga and writing. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction and lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with her husband.

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The Year That I Wasn’t Married
by Dustin Hellberg

was like the other years, but different, like
that dream where your house was never yours,
you rattling inside it, then someone gives
you back the ring, gives your mom cancer, your

best friend leaves you for her husband, and then
everyone’s an armadillo rolling
to different rental units. Someone gives
you cancer, and everything rattles loose.

Consider what rattles loose yours. Finders.
Consider the whale, consider the crocus.
Consider the quadrangle. Consider
the lark. Consider me yours. Consider
me gone. Consider my body a body
of theory why I didn’t, or don’t, or do.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 1.

/>Dustin Hellberg is an assistant professor of literature and creative writing in the Department of English Language and Literature, Yonsei University, Seoul, South Korea. He has an MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and a PhD from EGS, Switzerland. He has two forthcoming books, World Enough (Atropos), a work of criticism, and a book of poems, A Perfect Sphere on a Frictionless Plane (Delere).

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