Lonesome Cowboy River Pantoum
Fifteen years on a river on a boat
with a whitewashed hull and a cat named Blue
and a dog with four toes missing.
Eleven years with the same pipe--he's proud
of his whitewashed hull and his cat named Blue
who likes to watch the fish jump.
Eleven years with the same pipe--he's proud
when he passes by the house where he was born.
He likes to watch the fish jump
and throws dog chow at night
when he passes by the house where he was born
and sees it still standing, alive.
He throws dog chow at night
to the old cow nobody owns anymore
and sees it still standing, alive
like he is, he reminds himself.
The old cow nobody owns anymore
that once made children and milk but has gone dry
like he has, he reminds himself,
and the dog with the gray-brown coat
that once made children and milk but has gone dry.
Fifteen years on a river on a boat
and the dog with the gray-brown coat
with four toes missing.
by Steven Wingate
Steven Wingate's short story collection Wifeshopping won the 2007 Bakeless Prize from the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference and was published by Houghton Mifflin in July 2008. His fiction, poetry, reviews, and work in hybrid genres have appeared in such venues as Mississippi Review, The Journal, Gulf Coast, Brand (UK), Colorado Review, Rain Taxi, Waccamaw, and Sonora Review. He spends his analog time in Colorado and his virtual time at www.stevenwingate.com.
Oblique Eulogy II
What is death like, she asks,
as if she believes I know.
Like sleep, I venture, like not waking?
She nods, dubious.
As if she believes I know,
my mother comes in a dream.
She nods, dubious.
Her eyebrows meet like Frida Kahlo’s.
My mother comes in a dream,
bends to three striped kittens in my bed.
Her eyebrows meet like Frida Kahlo’s—
I’ve never noticed this.
Bent over kittens in my bed
she fades into me, becomes me
and I hardly notice.
It’s expected, unremarkable.
She fades, becomes me.
Fused, we resemble neither one.
Unremarkable, expected,
above my bed her face was young.
Fused, we resemble neither one.
In sleep, never waking,
above my bed her face was young.
What is death like, she asks.
by Juditha Dowd
Juditha Dowd’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Florida Review, California Quarterly, US1 Worksheets, Edison Review and Relief, as well as many others. In 2006, Finishing Line Press brought out her first chapbook, The Weathermancer. She performs regularly with the Cool Women poetry ensemble in the NY metro area, and occasionally in Portland, OR.