Winter 2010

Autumn 2009

Summer 2009

Spring 2009

Autumn 2008

Summer 2008

Spring/Summer 2008

Winter/Spring 2008

Editor's Note



Three Poems

by Steve Meador

Sign Language
There was never a conversation with Susie,
no grunted words slung from a passing swing
or breathless banter rolled from the high
end of the teeter-totter.
There is no voice to recall, only a plaid dress
draped over a white blouse. The same dress worn
day after day, which murmured its own words
beneath the dark tongue of her ponytail.
Near the end of the year, after I had pissed
my pants because someone hadn’t flipped
the red circle hanging on the restroom door
to green, Susie finally had something to say.
I looked across two aisles and she pointed
her finger at me, then touched it to the corner
of her eye. She repeated the motions. Slowly
spreading her legs she lowered the finger
and aimed it between them, at the yellow panties.
I have never read Robert Fulghum’s book,
but I damn-well know that he didn’t learn
everything in kindergarten.

High and Low Tide
A tsunami of Somali boys ripped over the threshold.
They scattered like bits of seashells and filled aisles
like a black tide. Hands lapped at the store shelves,
hoping to be quicker than the eye. Tense minutes
of ebb and flow passed before we told them to get out.
The oldest, the pre-pimple alpha thief, asked what
we would do to shoplifters. I snatched the fisherman’s
billy from my pocket and stung my palm with a slap,
First, I’d wait until the prick walks out the door—
everything has to be legal—then creep up behind him,
whack him viciously on the head time after time after
time. A sea of blood would spew into the gutter.
Then I would pick some weeds, sweep the sidewalk,
take out the garbage and wait and wait before calling
the rescue squad. Poor brainless bastard would scorch
like a beached porpoise. Come, boys, see the weeds in my
daylilies. Look at the sand on my sidewalk and those full
trash cans.” Behind me I heard shuffling feet recede across
the threshold and squawks from a flustered flock of gulls.

Monday Morning at the Diner
I went to the convention,
it was alright I guess,
except they had these young girls
trying to serve that shit
they called la-tay and capacini.
I wouldn’t drink it,
hell, I got a whole muddy river
running through my place
what looks just like the crap
they claimed was coffee.
I told ‘em come on to my town,
we’ll hop over to the diner,
order a big ‘un, black.
Now that’s coffee that’ll flutter your tongue,
knock you panties past your knees,
and if you want it to look like
that muddy-ass river you can either
pump it full of cream, or go scoop
a cup of river water.
They giggled, then the one with the little
titties said they weren’t allowed
to leave the convention center.
That was probably for good cause.
They would likely both drown,
even though the river
is only peter-deep in most places. 

Copyright 2010, Steve Meador. © This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.

Steve Meador’s book Throwing Percy from the Cherry Tree, released by D-N Publishing in 2008, was an entrant for a National Book Award and a Pulitzer Prize for poetry. He has been widely published, resulting in several Pushcart nominations. Recent work appeared in Quicksilver, Hobble Creek Review, qarrtsiluni, Strong Verse and many other print and electronic journals. Pudding House released two of his chapbooks in 2007. He has been a real estate broker in Calif, Ohio, and Florida for the last 30 years and currently lives in the Tampa area.