Tag Archives: Volume 21-2

Spiral Journey
by Michael Hardin

To reach the jetty, wind
past four cattle gates,
negotiate the dirt and rocks
that serve as road,

believe you are not lost
even when you are.
Turn right at the mobile home,
half-there, half not,

its insides scavenged.
Park at the rusted-out Dodge.
The jetty before you
is not Smithson’s,

a trick on the uninformed,
an industrial pier, and straight.
The path continues
beyond an amphibious lander,

misplaced memorial
to no war. A quarter mile more:
stop at the bucket seats,
sit and have a smoke.

The Great Salt Lake
has risen eight inches
above the whitened stones.
Wade the spiral

to its core. Wave
to your wife,
tell her to come out
in her shoes.

Watch her circle in
to you, take her hand
amid the red algae blooms
and kiss her salty skin.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.

Michael HardinNOriginally from Los Angeles, Michael Hardin lives in rural Pennsylvania with his wife, two children, and two Pekingeses.   He is the author of the forthcoming poetry chapbook, Born Again (Moonstone Press), and has had poems published in Seneca Review, Connecticut Review, North American Review, Quarterly West, Gargoyle, Texas Review, Tampa Review, among others.  He has recently finished his memoir, Touched.

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An Aside
by Jessica Rigney

A sun on a card on a patchwork box next to
her bed, tarot sun and two lovers not kissing just
looking at one another. She says she fell

in love with his hands first. Here’s where
to insert an aside, not formally, just casually. He
says it is her eyes still in the sun as she sits

on the sidewalk a heated patch. She rests inside
the tarot before she places cards into his hands, shuffles
her long fingers, divines using the middle one.

A middle way does not allow for asides even
on stage he looks at her cannot decide now
between her eyes which one is the lazy one

for she’s closed them against his claims, brought
her own body over a rise of boulders by sturdy feet.
The aside waits at the crevice where he inserts

his fingers before she even arrives. Or maybe it is
a common tree, a kind of weeping intimately. He can’t
eat what she eats anymore, no onion, and so

breathes into her heart at the crevice at the bed by
the sun not kissing just looking at the debris. If there were
something like blood between her legs, then there is where

an aside would venture its echo. She says she fell
many times while running up the stairs no it was down
from beside the sun where she is burning. His eyes

watch her distance from the couch for the heat as she speaks
of wishing not to know the future. Melancholy always wins
she tells him, tells him with her hands, how to hold

before she formally finds her feet beneath her in the middle
of the stage suffering seductions. The script already belongs
to her even though it only just arrived. It’s a delay she says

a reluctance of the heart. He believes the moment is
passed simply because the moment has passed.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.

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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In Life
by Evalyn Lee

A fight to the death—the eel speared,
Writhing, two crows, tactical usurpers,

Hungry, greedy, sneaky, watched the eel flip,
Dark, wet from the river. A life gulped by a cormorant.

It is as if the eel had never existed.
And what we are all afraid of happened

In an instant, the not being known before
Dying, in a morning of cobwebs and rose petals,

Come to ground, with dogs and shadows. High
Blue skies turned white with heat. The cormorant spread

Black eagle wings, its body, an eel, shivered,
Glorying in life even as the grass died beneath our feet.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.

Evalyn LeeEvalyn Lee is a former CBS News producer currently living in London with her husband and two children. Over the years, she has produced television segments for 60 Minutes in New York and then for the BBC in London. Her broadcast work has received an Emmy and numerous Writers Guild Awards and she is currently at work on her first novel.

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