Widow’s Walk

Fiorella de Maria

Last night I dreamt I was with you again,
Walking under the dripping chestnut trees,
Singing an old song you taught me long ago.
“Long ago.” How foolish now, when time is nothing
More than the ticking of a clock in some forgotten corner.
It can only be a moment since we laughed and cried,
I never remember which — and you cradled my face.
I feel the touch of your fingers tracing invisible paths
Into my hair, feel the pressure of an unexpected kiss. [Read more…]

Scattered Thundershowers this Afternoon

Robert MacArthur

The forecast didn’t call for principalities and powers.
In toppling heaps of alabaster balanced overhead
They hung, silently swelling, for apprehensive hours,
Filled full with holy water and rejuvenating dread.
Somebody called down judgment on the living and the dead
In faceless white serenity, the lurid hues washed out
Below, ice-prism halos above each thunderhead.
Let us set up a candlemas for when the power goes out. [Read more…]

Book Review: The Body of This

Katy Carl

Andrew McNabb, The Body of This
Warren Machine Books, 2009

With this first story collection, due out in April, Andrew McNabb deepens the mystery of finding ourselves, as spiritual beings, embodied. Through thirty central characters, his short-short stories and flash fictions provide thirty different responses to the mystery, all with a common thread: Our physicality points to truths that go beyond it. At the same time, in itself it is a beautiful thing. [Read more…]


Fiorella de Maria

I can taste the dust,
Red dust of the Sirocco.
The lonely call of the Sahara, which
Touches the sun-battered farmer’s face
In the whisper of a breeze,
Across the barren Maltese earth. [Read more…]

Book Review: Amor de Lohn

Katy Carl

Gabriel Olearnik, Amor de Lohn
Andromache Books, 2009

Readers of Dappled Things are already aware of the brilliance of British poet Gabriel Olearnik. A few of the poems in his new collection–notably the Pushcart Prize-nominated ‘The Builders,’ ‘Languedoc,’ ‘An English Apocalypse,’ and ‘Three Hours After the Miscarriage in Thailand’ have previously appeared in this journal. Most, however, are new. Alternately lyrical and epic, their free verse ranges over localities of Greek and Norse myth, history, geography, architecture, art, and the contemporary experience of Western alienation. The result is a volume that is cultured in the best sense, comprehending a multitude of narratives, ideas, and visions in a way cohesive enough to afford glimpses at Truth. Therefore, though the volume is dedicated “to the love of those far away,” it could also be read as dedicated to the love of that which is far away–Heaven–and yet not so far, after all. [Read more…]

San Diego Poem: Palm Sunday

Joseph O’Brien

For Deirdre Lickona

Tonight, the bluish TV screen warps into wine’s darkness–
Each hollowed head, each explosion, each kiss or gun
Stretches its restless bandwidth as through a glass vessel.

I lie. Nothing is going on outside. A dog barks
That same nothing in the moon’s language, although archeology
Has long since laid him to rest: in Pharaohs’ tombs, [Read more…]


James Watson

Writhing fish and speckled
In their ancient tongue convene:

“The one of whom our fathers spoke has come
Again to visit us–he who hovered on the Surface
And we leaped for joy.” (Forgotten memories
Of a blind happiness, when their cold blood
Was warmed, and they felt their scales tingle.) [Read more…]


Kate Bluett

She grows
round, a slow trans-
figuration. Some days it
seems she has always been waiting;
sometimes the immanence bewilders her.
The hidden confounds her, its stillness terrible,
its movements swift and sudden, joy dancing
on her inmost nerves. She waits to see him at last,
hold him, take him in her hands, receive him.
Present now, he will then be visible, glorious
to behold, his voice a clarion heard by all.
She waits. One day he will be here,
warm and breathing, sweet
and strangely

Kate Bluett is the wife of J.R. and the mother of Joseph. She writes, for the most part, while they are asleep. She is also a graduate of the University of Dallas, 2001 and 2006. And she lives in a city with the odd name of The Colony, Texas

The Infinite Jest

Peter Ascik

It sinks in, with the musk of morning,
through the pores.
And mingles with last night’s sweat,
and stains the sheets,
and stains the floor,
and stains the walls,
and stains the air, and you awake
husky and gasping. [Read more…]