Sections | Poetry | The Sun Magazine #2

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Poetry

Poetry

Smoke Memories

My mother and I were alone the night / our house burned down. I was nine that summer, / and the smell of smoke clung to my clothes. / And after the fire a tree in the yard / grew crooked with scoliosis, its back bending / away from the remains of the house.

By Doug Ramspeck October 2023
Poetry

I Eat My Words

Yes, it’s cruel. An unseemly gluttony. / Trapping the ortolan buntings, forcing / them to gorge in the dark, mouthfeel of seeds / their only comfort in that closed, blank space.

By Leona Sevick September 2023
Poetry

The Tunnel

It started with the mouse in the grass by the sidewalk, ants / crawling on its face. Aidan wanted to touch it. I drew him back / and held him. We talked about the gray fur and the tiny ants. He asked / if the mouse was going to go home to his mama and daddy. / No, I told him, the mouse won’t get to go home again.

By Donovan McAbee September 2023
Poetry

The Art Of Living

My fly line unspools across the water like a long sentence / whose final punctuation is a grizzly hackle tied by a friend. / He clamped his fly vise to the branch of a fallen pine / right after we arrived by mule train at this Montana river.

By Erik Reece August 2023
Poetry

Total Solar

We took our kids to City Hall Plaza / with its dead-on view / of South Mountain to watch / the moon eclipse our sun / in a certain way we’d been told / wouldn’t happen again / in our lifetime unless we traveled / to a far-off part of the globe.

By John Bargowski August 2023
Poetry

Poem In Which I Fail To Teach My Dog How To Fetch

Here, I call, using the sweet voice the vet psychiatrist recommended, not the hell no one I prefer. Here, I call again.

By Shuly Cawood July 2023
Poetry

The Only Ones

Poems About Parents

I failed at wisdom, nurture, / nature, separation, and calm. / I excelled at role model, if what / you wanted was wretched.

from “Old Mom,” by Jessica Barksdale

 

What my father didn’t know when he drove / ten-year-old me in the bed of his pickup truck / to gun shows & shooting ranges, initiating me / into the art of the hunt, was that he was actually / teaching me how to write poems

from “Portrait Of The Poet As A Child,” by Elizabeth Knapp

 

In my memories my godfather towers / over me, his deep baritone thundering / above us as we sing hymns during Sunday / service.

from “Small,” by Courtney LeBlanc

 

My brother calls to say he’ll meet us / for lunch in a few hours, not to wait for him / if he’s late. He’s got to pick up Mom. / And though the crematorium / is near our hotel, he’ll take her ashes home / first.

from “Waiting In Cars,” by Jackleen Holton

By Jessica Barksdale July 2023
Poetry

False Spring

We know it can’t last. / It’s still February, and it always snows in March / and April and sometimes even in May. / We’ll take it, though, the hunks of ice / shrinking and sliding off the roof / into puddles that weren’t there yesterday

By Kurt Luchs June 2023
Poetry

Some Quiet Evenings

I go out to sit with them — thin / insects tuning their strings, / the night’s first bat casting / in the breeze — and remember / that evening, hot and windless, / a new lover stripping / my bed, spreading my sheets / on the moonless grass.

By AE Hines June 2023
Poetry

Curve-Billed Thrasher

The curve-billed thrasher digs the small purple potatoes / from the raised garden beds and ruins them. / He sets them back into the hollows in which they grew, / each speared neatly once through the heart.

By Chera Hammons May 2023
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