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  • Robert L. Giron

Issue 102 — Colin Dodds, Gary Duehr, Laetitia Duler, Sandra Fees, Haley Wooning, Thom Young

Colin Dodds

No Apocalypse

An angel beats a gold mare

with a starry whip

and lets her trumpet dangle

The glass dome of the grand palace

shrouds the sunset

like an immense amoeba digesting a forest fire

Late afternoon has the black taxis of Paris

the men and women in black fall coats

run together like blood on the boulevard

actors in a plan abandoned but not replaced

gracefully bereft of any desire

for the world’s end

Oxidized green spattered with pigeon shit

the fountain Lucifer

is merely annoyed at St. Michael

and ready, already, to get back

to what they were doing before the saint

talked him into posing for statues

Copyright © 2017 by Colin Dodds.

About the Author

Colin Dodds is an author, poet and screenwriter. His writing has appeared in more than 250 publications, been nominated and shortlisted for numerous prizes, and praised by luminaries including Norman Mailer and David Berman. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife and daughter. See his work at

Gary Duehr

Kremlin Watch

Now is the time for elevators.

Now is the time for elevator watchers.

Everything depends upon

Who it is (and whom they’re with) as they disembark from yon

Black-windowed SUV, then wheel in the revolving door

To relax in the marble foyer

As 58 descends to One. What the boss upstsairs

Is thinking, no one knows, his immaculate hairs

In the shape of prayerful, folded hands

Across his forehead. Die-hard fans

Lean over concrete barriers lining Madison Ave.

They’d like to have

What he is having, all of it: the French-style mirrors,

The chandeliers in 24K, the ex-supermodel wife—without the terrors

Of being last or worst.

Whoever goes up the elevator, first

Must loiter there a decent amount

Before they whoosh back down. Whom to annoint,

Whom to exile, whom

To quid pro quo is the talk of the room

At the top. While TV crews at the bottom resume

Their Kremlin watch of doom and gloom.

Copyright © 2017 by Gary Duehr.

Reality Check

Nominated for a Pushcart Prize

So what is false? How much is true?

At the bottom of the TV screen, a scrolling chyron

Checks for you. Everyone must try on

Some new 3D glasses: the sky’s not really blue.

Black is white, in some instances.

Torturers know the first step to extract

Any remaining resistance

Is to get their subject to contradict a fact.

Then it’s all downhill.

How far have we slipped to date?

Outside, the ground is sheathed in white. Which one of us will

Vouch that it’s really snow? Is it too late

Before all turns to mush?

Sometimes just the day-to-day becomes too much,

Never mind the nutcase with an AK-47

Who believes heaven

Guides him to the back room of a pizza place

To infiltrate a child-sex ring. Has everything been orchestrated to erase

CNN’s fingerprints?

How can anyone know what they know if in is

Out and up is down? Send in

The clowns, don’t bother they’re here. Fin.

Copyright © 2017 by Gary Duehr.

About the Author:

Gary Duehr has taught poetry and writing for institutions including Boston University, Lesley University, and Tufts University. His MFA is from the University of Iowa Writers Workshop. In 2001 he received an NEA Poetry Fellowship, and he has also received grants and fellowships from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, the LEF Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation.

Journals in which his poems have appeared include Agni, American Literary Review, Chiron Review, Cottonwood, Hawaii Review, Hotel Amerika, Iowa Review, North American Review, and Southern Poetry Review.

His books of poetry include SORRY (Grisaille Press, 2012), In Passing (Grisaille Press, 2011), Potato Chips for Dinner (Cobble Hill Books, 2004), Beautiful Bullets (Cobble Hill Books, 2003),Winter Light (Four Way Books, 1999) and Where Everyone Is Going To (St. Andrews College Press, 1999).

Laetitia Duler


what stuns you what tears into you

these images that make your eyes bleed

i can’t imagine going through

without having in my possession

the sight of you on monday mornings

your face open and floral,

pressed into cotton

every small death you have endured

melting snow and my back turned away from you in bed,

knowing what the light can do

to you, mythologized creature, unforgiving thing

silent night beneath contaminated skies

pure story of your touch that is

forever ungiving, too private and close to grief

so i turn away from you, over again like dead leaves

sinister rivers that flow incorrectly

the grain of your voice like stones in the water

images was previously published in The Blue and White, October 2016.

Copyright © 2016 by Laetitia Duler.

About the Author

Laetitia Duler is currently at Barnard College studying poetry with Saskia Hamilton. She is French-American of French parents who live in the Bay Area. She attended the Lycee Français de San Francisco and graduated with a French OIB Baccalaureate. She started writing poetry in 7th grade when she saw the boy she was in love with kiss her friend.

Sandra Fees

In Bevans Church

the sparrow sweeps

the outer pane as if testing.

Glass can’t be trusted.

You could break, like junco,

its feet quivering

then motionless.

In Bevans Church the sparrow

knows something about me:

I’m the one who convenes the dead,

heart weighed against a feather.

This evening, your conscience,

if you have one, is light as tea leaves.

In Bevans Church the sparrow

fans my hunger for glass.

Copyright © 2017 by Sandra Fees.

About the Author

Sandra Fees is a poet and minister residing in Reading, Pennsylvania. Two of her collections of poems were published in 2017 The Temporary Vase of Hands (Finishing Line Press) and Moving, Being Moved (Five Oaks Press).

Haley Wooning


white gulls cull and mull

an insolent storm inconsolable

fish fin thin and weaving way

for each personal cyclone

a strict and sacred skeletal arrangement

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


I wish I could be silent more often an ilex

the waiting is essential

spring of mute sadness. I miss so many things.

swig of feathered wing. And collapse.

there is unfoldable time

and there is no way to make use of it

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


she is walking in the woods for something,

alphabet, assumptions,

residue of the blue

I wanted to sit down and write a love poem,

but empty turns to me and I give up

days seem more and more congealed


Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


yes, all is change. I blur.

dim glow of words, like

weakness it bridles the

bloody hands the


I lack myself

sit saxifrage and

wait for the

memories humming

down my limbs

to end

muddied, weighted body

to damp red earth I go

ossuary of blank despair

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


we, in our true forms

remain otherwhere

in reeds red sweet

on coast foreign

and home

how time can

blank you of me

how my worry consumes

and pushes itself

into another monster

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


stone endures not

simple or same

earth heaves me

forward shatters

heavy thick silence

red exhumed


living is a drugged

and dreamless sleep

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.


eros will derange you

a condition no rhyme can cure

how naked the pen feels

in my hand, blackbile ink

Copyright © 2017 by Haley Wooning.

About the Author

Haley Wooning lives in California, writes poetry.

Thom Young


love came back

to haunt


with a gun

in her hands

we sat over

a bowl of cold cereal



at how the world

used to be

I never saw her again

after that

but sometimes

I hurt for no reason

at all.

Copyright © 2017 by Thom Young.


see the circus


the monkeys

some in red, white,

and blue

a love that hates

and disagrees

monkey see

monkey kill

the glowing screen


yes we can

a future

to eat ice pops

in the metal sun


we can

Copyright © 2017 by Thom Young.

About the Author

Thom Young is a writer from Texas. His work has been in 3am magazine, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, The Legendary, 48th Street Press, The Zombie Logic Review, Commonline Journal, and many other places.

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