Bonfire on the beach behind we wade
into the secret dark,
mere figures paying tribute to certain
gods of war, the internal arguments
of fear. A silver planet of wind
and salt, where we need
new prayers, curling with the cold,
drifting in waves. Just breaking
the surface, seaweed without roots.
Without one another's voices, we are empty
vessels waiting for souls to crawl
in, tell us to whom we should give our
allegiances. We keep looking to shore
for the fires, keeping vigil
on the light left. Here where things
are born and perishing.
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Issue 61
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Editor's Note
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Poetry
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Fiction
Issue > Poetry
Liz Robbins
Liz Robbins' collection Play Button won the 2010 Cider Press Review Book Award, judged by Patricia Smith. Poems are in recent or forthcoming issues of Denver Quarterly, Fourteen Hills, Hayden's Ferry Review, The Journal, and The Kenyon Review. She's an associate professor of creative writing at Flagler College in St. Augustine, FL.Poetry
Lane Falcon
Words for Procreation
Poetry
John Sibley Williams
In Nautical Terms
Fiction
Grace Jung
Terry's Stories