THREE POEMS by MAGGIE FULMER
From the Dining Room
I watch deer jet across Cumberland Avenue
through the window—give them all a name
and a reason. Willow got lost chasing a hare,
Bucky paused on the sidewalk so Grace could catch up.
The vintage sewing machine in the corner finds purpose
as a desk. The first time my feet could reach the treadle,
I pedaled aimlessly until my mom told me to stop.
On Monday, I saw one listed for $960 on eBay.
I think about trees a lot these days, wonder
about the one that was struck by lighting before
it split and fell onto our clothesline, into the neighbors yard.
I don’t know what kind of tree it was and that feels wrong.
I still smell banana bread, coffee cake, and Windex.
Fight off the trepidation with bird feeders,
listen to Shania Twain on the CD player,
and make eye contact with another doe.
Fort Wright, Kentucky
After Florence, Kentucky by Adam SchefflerSo what if the backboard
of the basketball hoop in the
neighbor’s driveway is shattered,
as if the stakes don’t get higher
when you have something to prove?
They are still playing,
and after the rain
washes away the sidewalk
chalk from yesterday,
does the cardinal perched on the fence
feel more alone?
Today I will count the steps
it takes to get from Mom’s front porch
to the Civil War museum and back,
turning around only after my palm
has touched the trunk of a Sweetgum,
jagged like the blade of a saw.
Right now, at the dentist’s office,
the one next to the family diner
with the biscuits and gravy special,
a song plays on the radio that would stop
someone somewhere right in their tracks,
because it reminds them of—
Autumn’s enclosure
foreshadows shoveling snow,
and I think about everything we must do,
if we keep going and going
and going.
June
He plucks a lemon from the tree branch
and I think hands are proof of everything.
A caterpillar crawls off my thigh and onto his index finger
and I think hands are proof of everything.
Greedy for shoulders, sharp turns, and salvation –
we find a way to get the darkness to dance,
to make the knowing go both ways.
Salt and breath and hello.
Crushed mint and telescopes and goodbye.
I’ll keep hold of it all just in case
hands are proof of everything.
Summer won’t last any longer even if I beg but God if it could.
Maggie Fulmer is an emerging writer from Kentucky whose words can be found in Atlas + Alice, Dime Show Review, The Coil, and Ice Lolly Review. She received her BA in journalism and MA in English from Northern Kentucky University. Additionally, she serves as Co-EIC for the new literary magazine, Many Nice Donkeys. She can be found on most corners of the internet talking about boybands, books, and reality television.