ISSN 1551-8086
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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
-table of contents-
  contributing poets
  Gary Beck
  Stefanie Bennett
  Jack G. Bowman
  Jeffrey Bryant
  Beverly M. Collins
  Dalia Elmanzalawy
  John Grey
  Grant Guy
  David Herrle
  Colin James
  Ron Lucas
  Peter Magliocco
  Nate Maxon
  Stephen Mead
  Rajnish Mishra
  Diana Rosen
  Jeanne Marie Spicuzza
  Mark States
  Kallista A Thompson
  David Thornbrugh
  Alyssa Trivett
  Lynn White
  mailing list
Kallista A Thompson
November 2018



photo by marie c lecrivain

    "I'm a freshman at Taft College, I'm not an english major, but writing is one thing I really enjoy, and that sort of pulls me out of reality."




every year after i’ve not talked to

        my dad

in over three months, he texts me,

“Hey, send me some ideas for Christmas.”

i should be grateful, i know.

        my dad

has the money and the generosity to buy me christmas gifts.

lots of kids don’t even get one Christmas, i get two. one with my mom one with

        my dad.

but the selfish girl in me is still upset because

        my dad

doesn’t seem to do it because that’s what parents do on Christmas.

it seems that

        my dad

wants to make up for all the years he was MIA.

when we left Washington, i didn’t talk to my father for years.

when i was ten, i flew out to Washington to visit him, his new wife, his new step-son, his new dog, and our cat, that he kept when we left.

when i got off the plane at SeaTac International Airport, i didn’t know who to look for.

i didn’t know

        my dad.

i called him “Jeremy” for the first four years of our rekindled relationship, because i didn’t think he deserved the title of “dad”.

        my dad

is a great man. i know.

        my dad

has served in the military for over half of his life.

        my dad

paid child support.

        my dad

paid my medical bills.

        my dad

paid for my braces.

        my dad

put food on our table for 18 years.

        my dad

bought me the new shoes i wanted and the glasses i needed

        my dad

calls me on my birthday, on thanksgiving, on valentine’s day, on St. Patrick’s Day, because we are that Irish.

        my dad

even called me when i came out, he actually called

to say he loves me regardless.

        my dad’s

name in my phone is “Communist” because he one cold winter day when i was 13 and in the front seat of his forest green 98’ Toyota 4Runner, he started calling me Sputnik.

inside of me, there is an angry girl.

angry at her dad for letting go so easily without an occasional call or post card from all the magnificent places he had been to,

angry because no matter how heartbroken she was about losing her dad, all these years later, he is still

my father

copyright 2018 Kallista A Thompson