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  November 2018
volume 15 number 1
-table of contents-
  featured poets
  Will Alexander
  Sir Mark Bruback
  Don Kingfisher Campbell
  John LaMar Elison
  Darrell Herbert
  Emma Lee
  Rick Lupert
  Fabrice Poussin
  Walter Ruhlmann
  Miriam Sagan
  David Scriven
  Viola Weinberg
  Terry Wolverton
  mailing list
Terry Wolverton November 2018



art by dl warner

    Terry Wolverton is the author of ten books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, including Embers, a novel-in-poems, and Insurgent Muse: life and art at the Woman’s Building, a memoir. Her newest poetry collection, Ruin Porn, will be published in late 2017. Terry is the founder of Writers At Work, a creative writing studio in Los Angeles, and Affiliate Faculty in the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University Los Angeles.
Terry Wolverton




On this rooftop she sings like a siren
tonight, woman in a skirt of weather,
hem of infinite light. Strangers pass,
looking up to the source of song, but
can see only the frost of her ankles,
a swirl of snowflake in winter sky.

Underground her wail is molten, private
and forgotten. She has been transparent
but not anymore. Her see-through skin
now crimson, everything banging in
her bones. She will not be distracted from
dark pots dripping on the stove of rage.

Somewhere it is always cold, but she can’t
police the temperature, though she tries,
grasps at night glitter like a baby,
new to this world. Sapphires drape her hips
but these shiny keys do not unlock
the spring leaf breeze place she revels in.

Far-off moon, her fingers cannot catch it.
She wants to hold its icy hand but time
keeps bending, evidence dripping into
the numb past. Her wardrobe about to blow.
One hot string connects her to my heart
where she sways to sleep’s dark sonata.

("Seasoned" appeared in the Wolverton's collection, Ruin Porn, Finishing Line Press 2017)

copyright 2018 Terry Wolverton



I Take My Mother to the Universe Restaurant

I take my mother to the Universe Restaurant for a hot lunch.
We learn that yesterday was hot and tomorrow is cold.
Now it is bedtime on the backward clock, time to leave.
We don’t know the rules.

On this wandering star, I am daughter to a lost mother.
“Where is God, my husband?” It is a funny prayer, asked in song.
She can’t get him on the phone; it doesn’t work.
She feels his absence.

Nothing breaks her faith. Nothing ends her abiding bereavement.
We cling to the old weather, fire at the core of earth.
All I can do is fill her body with rhythm and contradiction.
I always spill out.

I pick my words, but meaning can’t be trapped.

A bone in the mouth to burn dissatisfaction.

Blot of blood on my forehead cannot drain the ash from her heart.

There are no promises.

copyright 2018 Terry Wolverton