Well, it’s that time again. When our Beginning Fiction class comes to a close and I make everyone write a poem. The groans weren’t too audible this term. But boy, the output was fantastic again. And even though we had a full house in class, here’s a small sampling:

Storming Chestnut Hill
Thwack!
The hot pink Lady Flier takes flight
and soars.
Small orb, swatted sharp,
settles softly in the rough.

Curses softly uttered succumb to sighs
as we begin our march –
mother, brother, and me.

Brown and brittle grass
scorched by sun and
trampled underfoot,

cowers under a sun
indifferent to sweat and tears alike.

Off the fairway a sparrow sings,
the lone voice of cheer among us.
My mother scowls,
and hacks through tall grass,
looking for her poorly played flamingo.

Dirty yellow bag,
dry-rotted clubs,
moldy knitted covers.
Perfect for the lady golfer in your life!

She never bothered with these things
until he took flight one spring,
condemning us to a summer spent
trudging in her wake,
hauling their burdensome load,
wondering what wrath she exorcised
smacking a tacky ball,
cursing when it went astray.
--by Jaclyn June

Saved
A small plastic piggy bank
In the shape of a rabbit
White with albino red eyes
My grandmother told an infant
To save
Or so I’m told

I think I misunderstood
To save
I kept the bank
Empty
It’s velvety fur lost its glue
Peeled to bare plastic skin

She died before we met
The bank sits still
On the shelf
Balding and penniless
I saved

---by Gina Watters
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UNTITLED
white limbs against a black sky
like a negative image
the cold huffing from her mouth
hot steam into the night
“say you’re sorry”
she screams and the words whistle off like a firecracker
exploding flashes of anger popping against his ears
but the ears can’t answer back
nor the lips long stifled from regret
and now death

forever immobile
like a train rusted to the track
no answer for long days away
rough beard kisses drenched in beer
no more apologies no more good nights
blank stares hard eyes
disappointment jumps from death
leaping to the next generation
to be held so smugly in new eyes
turning old fissures to new fault lines
forever damaging parental love

--by Logan Turner