ISSUE SEVENTEEN: My Salty Reels | next poem →

no.22 (Whiteout)

David Brennan

In the sparrow’s mouth
                     salmon leapt sheaves of snow.

There was no faith left anywhere
except in the purely mathematical
models of socialism.

We waited for something without knowing for what. Units of time

revealed themselves as paintings of the homeless.

The snow formed a geographical presence,
filled with cold drifts the space

in our minds prepared
to accept the force of an impersonal death.

                     The bird

was either invisible or was totally surrounding the sky
from which the fish are dropped.

David Brennan's most recent book is If Beauty Has to Hide, forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil. His poems and essays have appeared in BOAAT, Timber, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere. He teaches at James Madison University.

ISSUE SEVENTEEN: My Salty Reels | next poem →


Arielle Tipa

Lori Moseman Anderson
   life jacket made only of sleeves torn from cloaks

Megan Mealor
   Recurring Daymare

Sáshily Kling
   History of the Hurricane

David Brennan
   no.22 (Whiteout)

Rachel J. Bennett
   Castle bakes casseroles for the masses & ties

Evelína Kolářová
   beef steak

Jessica Mehta
   The Weight of Secrets

J.D. Anthony
   and only through walking do you arrive.