Tag Archives: Volume 21-2

Common Plants of Nunavut (II): Mountain Sorrel
by Caroline Goodwin


Oh the myrtle so bright. The eyeslip, the bee.
Still and know. And how sad I am, and for days

on end. In 1962, they burned the village to the ground.
Your pots and pans, your baskets, your planks where the sun

rays touched first. I gather up the rhizoids. When I am brave enough
to walk past again, I shall place a quill earring in the shade.

In the book of sweet grasses, write your name.

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

caroline-goodwinCaroline Goodwin’s books are Trapline, Peregrine and The Paper Tree. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow in poetry at Stanford University, she currently teaches at California College of the Arts and the Stanford Writer’s Studio. From 2014 – 16 she served as the first Poet Laureate of San Mateo County, California. Website: carolinegoodw.com

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To the Ghost Of Humid Nights
by Mary Moore

You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust
and whistle up hill and down the side I
can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect
the mist. Days, the woods gather
the warm and humid cool sets loose,
gray-blue pearls a girl might wear or be,
sway and drape, slow-dance the ridges mother.
Sister who was, then wasn’t, ghost story:
I’ve seen you haloed and pale
like the drowned, or blooded, flush
with energy, riding the woods’ luscious
scents, oak bark, humus, pine. Do you know
who whistled up the musk and gristle
we are? You’ve licked the light
off Four Pole Creek. If not flesh and bone,
gust in the mist. Earth is your mouth.


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

Mary Moore 2019Mary B. Moore’s books include the full-length Flicker, winner of the 2016 Dogfish Head award, and Eating the Light, winner of Sable Books’ 2016 chapbook award. Cleveland U. published The Book Of Snow (1998). Amanda and the Man Soul (winner of EMRYS chapbook prize) is forthcoming in late 2017.

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The Lake
by Richard Terrill

after Yeats

I’m getting up soon, and going to the lake,
where my father’s cabin leans toward the north,
more chinks between the logs than last year’s newsprint could patch,
old kitchen pots on the front room floor to catch the roof’s leaks.

I’ll catch black bass after dark in the lily pads,
and each day my father will talk about hunting birds this fall,
and my mother will read a book and occasionally
remember dreaming. It’s a place of such anticipation

as when morning lifts its dew over the grass in August
and over blueberries too small in the wetlands, never grown sweet,
and the bittern standing on one leg, and the loon sane as day.
The mosquito buzz at evening sends us indoors–mostly safely

(everyone knows that joke, and the holes in the rusted screens).
Ok. I’m getting up now, because for days I’ve heard the frogs
awakening, and the blackbirds’ fine syllables, and the few cars
on the road hidden behind the young red pines. I’m down that road,

away, always away now, and looking
toward its farthest bend.


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

Richard TerrillRichard Terrill is the author five books, including Coming Late to Rachmaninoff, winner of the Minnesota Book Award for poetry, and Saturday Night in Baoding: A China Memoir, winner of the Associated Writing Programs Award for Nonfiction.  His memoir Fakebook chronicles his experiences as a jazz saxophone player.

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