Issue #31.4 A Triple Issue: Heather Truett, Salvatore Difalco, Russell Rowland
A Poem by Heather Truett
Viper
sank in fangs, then tried to flee, but I remember his name, his slit eyes, the flashing of a fast tongue that brought no pleasure. My blood boiled over. All his slithering came to naught, and I walk naked into the garden. I straddle Adam bathed in ash and apples.
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Heather Truett holds an MFA from the University of Memphis and is doing PhD work at FSU. Her debut novel, KISS AND REPEAT, was released from Macmillan in 2021. She has work in Hunger Mountain, Whale Road Review, and Appalachian Review. Heather serves as editor-in-chief of the Southeast Review. Find out more at www.heathertruett.com.
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A Poem by Salvatore Difalco
Game Seven
Going on in silence behind me matters to millions, it matters to me in passing, but I grind my teeth meanwhile, my armpits lather. I’d laugh if not alone, it always makes me feel a little sorry for myself when I laugh aloud by myself. But I hear cheers from next door or groans depending how the bats swing. And yes I’ll tango in the streets when and if the time comes. Who am I to keep my own council when victory unites the citizenry? Is it only triumph that we seek, or sportsmanship, that human feeling thing, that overcoming as a team? It matters how we frame the game. It matters and it doesn’t matter. But enough with the tiptoeing. Give me victory or give me death is the theme of this rap.
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Poet and Storyteller Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto Canada. Recent work appears in Journal of Compressed Arts, E-ratio, and Cafe Irreal.
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A Poem by Russell Rowland
Nocturne in C Minor
This is the red fox’s time to see but not be seen; and the unblinking owl overhead; and the binocular moon above all. Since we do not have eyes
like theirs, we just go to bed. Still, it is an hour suitable for hindsight, back to dead-letter days, cold-case days, still on our consciences.
What was said and done we realize might have been said and done better. (Oh, the child’s teary face; the doors slammed on our apologies.)
Dark hour too of foresight: what we see coming, what form it takes once it arrives. Whether good is said of us, when we present accounts.
We do fall asleep, until morning breaks. Fox and moon slink away, owl flaps off into woods still shrouded. The sky, protective, hides its stars.
We dress for the forecast, put on our eyeglasses if we need them, decide which bills to pay— transpose to C Major, as long as it’s day.
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Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
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