On Ice

By NATHANIEL PERRY 

 

The dogwood makes a second

skin of winter rain.

The form’s the thing, the sky

is saying as it drains

 

our language of descriptors:

crystalline? No, not glassy

either, or prismatic

or delicate or flashy

 

(not showing off or making

a beacon of the day’s

small sun) or fragile, or mine,

or ours. There are only the ways

 

it mimics what it itself

can’t say, but re-covers instead

in clarity—the way

the world gets locked in our heads.

 

[Purchase Issue 13 here]

Nathaniel Perry is the author of Nine Acres, winner of the APR/Honickman First Book Prize. He is the editor of The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and lives with his family in rural Southside Virginia.

Julia PikeOn Ice

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May 2017 Poetry Feature

GERRY LaFEMINA
Giant shadows of wind, the semis blow by, / bemoaning lost mileage; the drivers / on that mad combination of caffeine, adrenaline, / & speed. The skyline something crossed out— / not a bad word, necessarily, but a right phrase.

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RACHEL PASTAN
We are barreling north out of Salt Lake City, and David is talking about the clouds. “They don’t look like the clouds in the East,” he says. “They’re uniform, but fuzzy.” Out the window, the topaz sky shimmers over the mountains.

Herd of goats under a tree

Translation

DEMETRI RAFTOPOULOS
From Niko’s balcony, we see a legion of olive trees protecting the Kleftoyiannis mountain. Today they are calm. Like the sea in the distance, an ironed light blue bed sheet.