August

By ALEXEI TSVETKOV

 

apples went brown and sizzled on the ground
the instant they touched it and the vain promise
of autumn stayed just that the august was
interminable and the vet was blunt
a month at best he said and that was not
a promise so we farmed the ailing dog
out to the in-laws and just left him there

 

the dog was nothing much a foundling from
some shelter in ann arbor yet he served
our marriage as a mascot and we dreaded
to watch him die i visited the in-laws
on my way back from the big apple he
was all but gone already and his final
night on this earth we spent in the same bed
under the stars out on a creaky porch
under a constant drum-beat of the apples
hitting the ground in my wife’s father’s orchard
he was atremble entering the vast
terrain of nowhere it was so damn hot

 

our bedroom was facing the iwo jima
memorial where we used to walk him while
in better health there on a bench i tried
to calm her down there i consoled us both
as best i could while filing for divorce
a month at best the month was august which
was on its last allowance autumn came

 

 

Alexei Tsvetkov is a Russian poet and essayist with several published poetry collections to his credit. 

[Purchase your copy of Issue 05 here]

August

Related Posts

Headshots of Miller and Gill

Marie-Andrée Gill: Poems in Translation from SPAWN

MARIE-ANDREE GILL
Marie-Andrée Gill’s Spawn is a surprising, colorful, virtuosic collection. Its brief, untitled poems span ’90s-kid nostalgia, the life cycle of fresh-water salmon, a coming of age, and the natural landscape of the Mashteuiatsh reserve, centered on Lake Piekuakami

Saudade

DIPIKA MUKHERJEE
In Itaparica, the beach broods / under ruddy sky. Two fishermen / and I search waves spitting / shells: ribbed green, a crown / for a queen; a conch; an obelisk; / a whorled shell; a thin swell / pink modica of a disc.

image of ceramic toy walmart

December 2019 Poetry Feature: New Poems for the Holiday Season

ADAM SCHEFFLER
A poem can’t tell you what it’s like / to be 83 and seven hours deep / into a Christmas Eve shift / at Walmart, cajoling / beeps from objects like the secret / name each of us will never / be sweetly called, can’t show / you her face and eyes like the