Poetry Winter 2023 fiction all issues
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Cover
Susan Wilkinson
Selena Spier
Red From The West
& other poems
Pamela Wax
Talk Therapy
& other poems
Ana Reisens
Honey Water
& other poems
Mark Yakich
Necessary Hope
& other poems
Bridget Kriner
A Few Lies & a Truth
& other poems
Keegan Shepherd
Silver Queen
& other poems
Alaina Goodrich
Sacred Conflagration
& other poems
George Longenecker
Those Who Hunger
& other poems
Hailey Young
Ball Room
& other poems
Sébastien Luc Butler
Aubade
& other poems
Savannah Grant
Ever Since (v.2)
& other poems
grace (logan)
Dynamic
& other poems
Samantha Imperi
A Poem for the Ghosted
& other poems
Corinne Walsh
Limerence
& other poems
Kayla Heinze
Stop checking the score
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Chasing Through to Dawn
& other poems
Alex Eve
A moment
& other poems
Robert Michael Oliver
Prison Hounds
& other poems
Alaina Goodrich
Saving Seeds
Amazing, how a little seed
can turn a girl into a wise woman.
I look closely, at all your possibility
and perfect form
and see the past, your mother
that perfect sunny day I worked the earth
loosened the dirt
added the manure
and placed her with the others
in a perfect circle, a five point star
covered her up and added water
to start the transformation
to tell her the ingredients were right
to reach out into the earth
and pull in pieces to weave into herself
to take earth and air and make something more than a sum of the parts.
I look at all the seeds she gave me
from just one large orange fruit
some now covered with oil and salt, pepper, paprika, and garlic
roasted and ready to become part of me,
some raw and drying, waiting for next year.
I marvel at the magic of the multiplication
makes me raise my hands, my head, my heart
makes me dance as they go down, the roasted ones
makes me want to make tea
and a poem
and light a candle, my ceremony for inspiration.
Makes me think of my mother
and the magic she makes
how she heals me, every time she feeds me
how she takes common ingredients, lets them simmer
and finishes with something more than a sum of the parts.
Makes me think of your grandmother, or great grandmother
I watched her grow, as a child
and helped her become
as she did me.
I remember the way my heart leapt when she first emerged
like freedom, and heaven, warm and wild
remember the sting of mosquitos if I watered at dusk
remember the reprieve from the world she offered
a timeless space, where everything was right.
They taught me how to work with the earth—our mothers, and grandmothers
taught me how to be quiet and listen
how to stand tall
how to receive
how to take common ingredients, like these words
and make a masterpiece.
Transformations
I can almost feel
(I can feel)
the skin of my face
sitting a little lower than it used to.
And I can almost hear
the earth
calling
for this body back
singing
gravity is love.
Someday, Earth Mother
take me back
into your womb
and make me new again.
Let me simmer
close to you
and grow like a good poem
not forced
but fed
with hope
in my own time.
Brush your long hair
and dream of what I will become.
Warming Up
I like to inspect my pencil before I write
to see the way the light shines on its dark tip
on its many curves and angles of
sparkling graphite.
I like to feel the soft fuzz of its shaved part
to slide my fingers up and down the length of it
so hard and smooth that I giggle at
this Cra-Z-Art.
And I wonder who else has touched it
and if anyone has ever looked at it the way I have
with thoughtful doe eyes
curious for its story
of where it’s been and how it came to be.
I notice so many markings
a large gouge on one side, and two smaller ones
exposing the flesh colored body
beneath the orange coat of paint.
And I feel its depressions, little valleys
and I wonder what forces it caved under.
I see its silver cap is a little misshapen
a little bit scruffy.
It’s almost free of its #2 label
that has all but worn off
and its surface has many lines, some deeper than others.
I add 3 lines, in the shape of my initial.
I cannot help myself, but to leave my mark on him also.
This wise old man has many secrets to tell
like me
so I take him in hand and begin
to write.
Pearls
I wonder how pearls are made
as the oceans in my eyes rise
too full
trickling tear shaped pearls when I close them.
I wonder what ingredients the clam takes in.
And I suppose when he is open
he takes in the whole ocean
and maybe when he is closed
is when he makes the magic happen.
I picture a clam
burying himself
in the sand
under the weight of all that water
in all that pressure,
making a rare treasure
layer by layer
on a vexation stuck inside.
I wish that I too could bury myself
beneath the ocean
away from the world
and maybe make some magic happen.
I think about the hard things stuck in me.
The pains of loss; of empty cages,
and desks,
and hearts, who trusted you.
A small yellow gecko body turned bones
mouth wide
screaming into death
alone.
A classroom pet who knew not about quarantine,
cared not about missing keys.
A 13 year old boy
with red hair and freckles and work boots
and a smile that hid desolation.
There is so much I could have told him.
So much I should have asked.
He asked for a broom to clean the dirt he brought in
but was given a test instead
on his last day to live.
A horrible fail.
A deep, defining, horrific fail
of a teacher who did not know about making a right decision
instead of a right decision.
He knew not about cells,
he knew about hopelessness.
Despair and confusion on the faces and voices of 20 children
times 5 classes a day
day after day
staring at the weight of empty at that desk, and in the cage, and their hearts.
They trusted you
and you did not save them.
Even your own heart
put on hold, year after year, still making the right decision
instead of the right decision.
I go over this again and again,
all the what ifs,
until I cannot hold it in.
And I think about the women
who dive for pearls
whose whole livelihoods depend on it
who trained their bodies to hold their breath for 6 minutes
or more.
And I think about the pain I am polishing
asking me to find a way.
Sacred Conflagration
I turned the light on
in my soul
and inspected my pencil:
cedar wood, graphite core,
place of origin—obscure
(but Earth, I’m quite sure)
and lit my candle, “made in the USA” stuck on its front.
But the flame—not of Earth, other worldly
it crackled
and danced
and said:
“The alchemist, inspecting her wand
found the light
reflecting
from the many facets of its tip
as she spun it, slowly
and pushed back its sheath
of wood.
To bring her fantasy to life,
to make a little magic,
they needed each other
her heart and the rock, in the wand,
to transcribe
to translate.
She held me closer
with soft eyes.
I lit up her face
my reflection dancing in her eyes
she closed them and breathed me in
held me to her chest
tipped her head back
and opened her heart—
where I met my maker—
a sacred conflagration
roaring
like a lion
we merged into one flame
dancing together
hoping the whole world
would catch on.”
Alaina Goodrich
is a nature loving, wonder seeking, music making mama and teacher. She has had poems published in Sixfold’s Winter 2021 issue; she is grateful for all who participate and give such meaningful feedback. She loves noticing the miraculous in all things and contemplating existence. She is excited to see where this wild journey takes us all in the coming years.