Issue 13

Autumn 2014


On Reading War Poetry While Listening to Jazz

Across the grass the stumbling
sax spills grace notes into my lap
painting the sky red. The almond air

curls round the honeysuckle,
the poplar’s long shadow
a finger pointing.

Twilight: the ghost of a mother
stroking a baby’s brow as he dreams.
When he wakes she’s gone.

Is it separation, or fear, or the power to kill,
that makes men lonely, each in the shell
of his skull, the fallow deer haunting his dark?


Janet Fisher