Featured Selections
Pink Suede Boots
When I Come to Get My Things
King Rail Reserve
Listen to Poems from Our April Issue
By Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor • April 30, 2024The poems in our April issue, by Alison Luterman, Matthew Siegel, and Glenn Stowell, all touch on themes of what we give away or leave behind. One is about the natural world, two are about human possessions, and all three are full of photographic imagery: magnolia blossoms; frozen feathers; a painting of a dog. Click the play button below to listen to recordings of the poems.
Take care and listen well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor
Pink Suede Boots
By Alison Luterman
Decades old now, but the leather’s held up, and the curve of the instep is still elegant. I gave them away to my goddaughter, sixteen and blossoming. She was thrilled. They’re retro, they’re vintage, as I am now, who once strode the city in my invincible body, clack-clacking over Cambridge cobblestones on those sassy kitten heels like the Princess of Everything. Resilient relics from another life, they outlasted a cross-country move, a starter marriage, and a few bouts of plantar fasciitis, then languished in the abyss of my closet for years until I decided, Let her have them, this girl who is even now stretching toward love in all its many-splendored disguises like the limbs of the magnolia in April, aglow with blushing petals. And when I say they’re pink, let me be clear: not hot pink, nor bubblegum, but a dusty rose, color of desire and rue, color of the secret places inside a woman who’s been around the block a few times and knows she’s had her share, yet still wants more: to be what I was always destined to be before this burning world had its way with me.
When I Come to Get My Things
By Matthew Siegel
I am amazed at how much of my shit I left with her, and to see it piled in her hallway clears space in me for what? I wander my new emptiness as the small bag of her things I’ve brought weighs down my hand: purple slippers, black shoes, a gold key, heavier than my entire imagination. I should take two trips to move my stuff, but instead I carry it all at once, overloading my arms, handles dug into my shoulders, loudspeaker dragged behind me like a suitcase, skateboard tucked into an armpit, and regret wide as November. Is now when I ask how one can ever measure anything? Shirts, socks, underwear, all folded. The dog’s bowl and food and toys and leash. Books we shared: The Best We Could Do, All the Light We Cannot See, Wildflowers of Northern California. Mints and twist ties and garden spikes. A watercolor painting of the dog. And so much else I’m unable to carry.
King Rail Reserve
By Glenn Stowell
Wind-plowed furrows in ice across the marsh. Cattails frozen suppliant. Loosestrife withered colorless under a bright but ineffective sun. The sky as full of wayward sparks as one can imagine, toiling away not merely beyond sight but outside the reach of a concept as simple as our present. This reserve named for king rail, of which remain in winter only toe prints preserved in mud and molted feathers encased in ice. One is never assured of return, but we forge comfort from history. We mold our lives into something we understand or else a place we might move through. Stretching from the grayed boardwalk planks, a wooden overlook like an abandoned poled ferry. On its deck a mouse pelt so cleanly removed the wearer seems to have prepared for a journey.
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