h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s






By not talking about it, it becomes important.

You can’t live forever is a permission:
danger invites rescue
and the rescuer imperiled.

The lovelier the leveler
the slower disaster shows;
only now can I see how
I got here.

Not too much building
or too obvious, our commentary
could come from elsewhere.
I (the character) would see
but the narrator would do the speaking.

All information comes through
this filter, somebody’s daughter,
her mental or spiritual desire, opinion,
the take.

Infiltration of the ear, sanctum sanctorum,
most terrifying thing—
fly inside the dream mind.





to straddle is to be enduringly         interesting     he said

body the time machine        magic me back

to attraction     mind telling itself        I know what

you don’t        in forty years there will be no

more redheads     yes     no more

(on whose authority     do you delete me?)

with dream work we honor our breathing     a making

well-married to living—     ideas whose music swings

the trees     fir boughs     on the downbeat

but now     this wakeful brain saying     how many blackbirds

do we need        to embody the world?

two kangaroos     two ocelots     two buffalos     two sheep—

but I can’t find my sleep        the leveler

gifter of invisible     tattoos     the things I loved then—

titles     accusations     bones and shells

antiquated aureoles     cellplane on glass     in only one direction

am I     am I     going     frigid here most of the year

upper middle     natural order     peer peer     out the window into mist

the world’s cold sweat     to one mindset     or blackberries’ bath

pretty polyvalence     must have two     or we won’t survive—

to straddle is to be        enduringly





Circles and circles of sorrow
where I let myself go.
Narcissus, I says, you are one
sensitive creature, no one else can see
your wrinkles.
I squint, they magnify.
On the surface find reflections
of hieroglyphic branches,
dead of alder asking
can’t I ride the shaft of time,
not be caught in its cycles
like flotsam in a whirlpool,
sport of greater forces.
Flocked by famishing
attendants, cormorant seducers,
I opened a weather eye.
Young, I wrestled with my executioner.
Circles and circles, the mob
surged in to see. Young,
I was the Antichrist of Ingratitude.
Now try to stop my mouth
from saying Please and
Thank you to the air.



BIO: Kathleen Winter is the author of Nostalgia for the Criminal Past (Elixir Press), winner of the Antivenom Poetry Prize and 2013 Texas Institute of Letters Bob Bush Memorial Award.  In 2014 her book manuscript won the Rochelle Ratner Memorial Prize, selected by Brenda Hillman.  Winter received fellowships from the James Merrill House; Brown Foundation Residency at the Dora Maar House; Vermont Studio Center; and Prague Summer Program.  Her poems have been published in Tin House, Poetry London, AGNI, The New Republic, Colorado Review, Gulf Coast, Drunken Boat, New American Writing and Memorious.  


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