PQ Poem Archives - Pittsburgh Quarterly

Tracing

Tracing My mother has two, six-inch long scars on the front of her shoulders as if heaven made a mistake and stitched wings on the wrong side and angels had to saw them off. But truthfully, while playing basketball, the bird of her bone simply fell from the nest of her joint. She was opened by a surgeon’s knifedifferently …

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PQ Poem

Ice Ball

by Frank Lehner

Ice Ball A couple of kids sniggering behind a corner mailbox in waitgot me good they did. One, off the top of my cool tossle cap and the second, a square plunk to the shoulder that stung.Then there they ran up Bell Avenue then left through Wilson’s yard vanished I could hear the laughing delight …

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PQ Poem

Attempt

by Lloyd Wallace

Attempt I’m trying to seehow far a man can walkwhile standing still. Maybe that is death:falling asleep, and travelling so far inside the bodyyou can’t find your way out again. Winter nights, a few small cloudsshriveled up like chicken hearts. The wind chasing its own tail forever. I’m here, my love,I’m still alive. I’m singing …

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PQ Poem

BLACK AND WHITE

by Marc Harshman

BLACK AND WHITE The rabbit lawn on the north side, between the railroad tracks and highway, is deserted but for these five blackbirds and a limp fence of yellow tape.The boy in jeans lay spread-eagled on the asphalt, unblinking when the sun first stepped between the bright clouds. I began to write that I still …

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PQ Poem

The Morning Commute

by Torli Bush

The Morning Commute Low slate clouds make the morningsun into a trick moonjust above the tree linewhile the fog makes I-79into a ghost trail, a liminal fadeof asphalt and other vehicles:now in sight, now out of sight.The split deer carcasses along the edge,the covenant sacrificethat feeds this machine.

PQ Poem

Elegy for the Appalachian Summers of My Childhood

by Bethany Jarmul

Elegy for the Appalachian Summers of My Childhood For the smell of honeysuckle & the itch of poison ivy,for the sun-baked sweat stains on the armpits of our tank tops. For the bumpy toads that blinked at us as we clutched them& the slimy ones that slipped from our fingers. For the July fourth festival …

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PQ Poem

Living Grief

by Donna Dzurilla

How am I supposed to do this? Your rough hands cup my shouldersyou hold me a step away then kiss me.I know every assaultworking steel made to your body.Pockmarks on the top of your hands from scalds of wet metalFlesh underyour right forearm puckered by a slice ofsheet metalInner left thigh a leathery map of …

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PQ Poem

Nightrain

by Jennifer Hambrick

Nightrain after Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days We missed the sunsetand now we are lying in this bedthe lights offeverything closed in darknessmarking the death of dayof wakefulness, obscuringthe colors of the world. I notice the rain tendering the leaves—dropping sometimes in needleslight and slender, sometimeslike paint splotching a tarp, rotund,worldly. Drops fall in disheveled timetaps …

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PQ Poem

The First Years

by Sara Henning

The First Years Locals call it the gates of hell, craterin the Turkmenistan desert burning forty years. The longest-burning fire begansix thousand years ago—an Australian coal seam in New South Wales ignited by lightning,smiting the biome into barren trails. But I always come back to the coal seamblazing under Centralia, Pennsylvania, where a trash fire …

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PQ Poem

The Bridge to Brunot Island

by Ziggy Edwards

The Bridge to Brunot Island Caged in its lattice of trusses,a worker crossing on footcan witness the last orange flashbefore bare winter conjures Ohio’s vengeance.For now, giants in their opaque depthsbreathe evenly; the bridge’s underbellyjiggles the surface. The hammerhead siren is only sunbathing. A guy on second shiftswears he saw the shadow of Dr. Brunothaunting …

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PQ Poem

Work Confession

by Todd Davis

Work Confession I dug a room that sits empty beneath the earth. I ate the last of the potatoes and didn’t get around to canning before the tomatoes and peppers rotted. Like rain on pursed lips, tomorrow will be a feast day with nothing. We don’t drag the river for our dead anymore. The cemetery’s …

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PQ Poem

Saturday Morning Flannel Sheets

by Amy Lee Heinlen

Saturday Morning Flannel Sheets Because I say the exact wrong thingmy daughter sobs: I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want youto die. I don’t want to die. She’s five.Her tongue jimmies her first tooth loose from its warmbottom gum. This necessary severing can’t come withouta little wriggle and push, a little blood. I …

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PQ Poem

Prelude

by Gary Fincke

Prelude One night, when you are to readYour poems after a womanWho performs in a beretJauntily angled and a scarfTrailing fringe to her knees, you’reEmbarrassed enough to ponderFeigning illness, every wordYou are about to read becomeAs pretentious as her voiceLifted at the close of each lineAlready dense with inflections. As the half-filled room, formerlyA small …

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PQ Poem

Beer Money for Almost Nothing

by Gary Ciocco

Beer Money for Almost Nothing “Holdin’ on to sixteen as long as you can Change is coming ’round real soon Make us women and men.” John Cougar Mellencamp, “Jack and Diane” The Rolling Rock Brewery, red brick behemoth, stood just down the street. I’d had some of the palest ale already, but in nineteen-eighty-two I stepped inside. …

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PQ Poem

Glendale Lake

by Matthew Ussia

Glendale Lake Summer neck deep on my birthdaydrowning has always been too easyno lifeguard on dutycold currents from the depthsstirred up by distant motorboatscan feel every inch of skinunderneath my clothesfor the next three days Autumn past-peak color on the hillsidesdogs rooting through leaveshoping to surprise a chipmunkthe promise of wintercould separate usfrom our sacred …

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PQ Poem

Vanishing Point

by Valerie Bacharach

Vanishing Point Wind kicks sand, a mist of saltwater layers my skin.I am on Hatteras island, the Atlantic on one side, Pamlico sound on the other. My feet unsteady as waves roll in, shift ground beneath me.I walk and walk, stop to gather a few intact shells, ocher and cream, maroon and gray,what were once …

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PQ Poem

Our Ark

by Philip Terman

Our Ark If it’s the spruce it must be the mourning doves, the willow— the two blue birds the arborvitaes—robins If it’s the shagbark hickory the red-headed woodpecker If it’s the red oak at the far end of the trail the magnificent male pheasant If it’s the underbrush at the inflow-end of the pond the …

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PQ Poem

Four Shorts

by Sheila L. Carter-Jones

Four Shorts 1.organic green(for Pat who died too young)when you come back you will leada flock of mallards through novice blueno more brown speckled plumagecourting distorted imagesin stagnant pond water your glossy bottle-green head will burnthe wind jealous-amber as alwaysyour wild feathers so fowllight will follow you 2.Construction Worker(about an eighth grade girl) She could …

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PQ Poem

To My Young Self

by Susan Shaw Sailer

To My Young Self you took up nearly no space so quiet you were never heard or seen see here in the front yard among the mini Japanese maple tree the Oregon grape bush the stained-brown fence beyond you were a piece of beauty bark merely ground …

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PQ Poem

The Sea Lion Who Saved The Boy Who Jumped From the Golden Gate

by Jane McCafferty

The Sea Lion Who Saved The Boy Who Jumped From the Golden Gate 1.All my slippery-slick dark life,whether at sea with a raftof sisters and brothers,or on rockssprawled in a colony,I’ve loved the water.Sometimesin the depthsI’ll sleep,then waketo breakthrough water’s skinto look at stars —swallowing them with my eyes.I’ve loved tunnelingtwistingturningcelebratingthe impossible freedomof having no …

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PQ Poem

The Factory

by Michael Comiskey

The FactoryI start my shift as jars and bottles marchin perfect ranks and files from the oven,glass soldiers of an army on parade.An electric selector inspects theirwarm bodies for weakness; those that don’t passmuster must be mustered out—returned tothe furnace to be melted and recast.Maybe on their next try they can run theobstacle course. Those …

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Culture PQ Poem

Morning Yoga

by Shaheen Dil

Morning Yoga The yoga ladies gather at daybreak,drag plastic chairs over cracked earthinto straggling rows. Bright greetings and murmured joysflit lightly through the clustered groups,conspire against the teacher’s drone: “Bring silence to your Practice,breathe deeply—inhale, sustain, and exhale—listen to the sacred sound of Ommm. . .” But the yoga ladies gather to gossip,exchange the tremors …

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