Wine for a Shotgun
Marty McConnell
EM Press, 2012
$15.00, 70pp.
Reviewed by Kelly Davio
Wine for a Shotgun and the Poetics of Raucous Restraint
“Each time we run away from ourselves we are driven home again with greater force. Every effort to break out only pushes us further back into ourselves.” – Henry Miller, Stand Still Like the Hummingbird
MADISON, NJ — When we moved into our new place, I decided the bird feeders had to go. It’s not that I mind birds. I mostly enjoy them, their colorful chirping. Continue Reading
I once took a poetry workshop led by Bill Olsen during which I felt alternately terrified and inspired, and for some reason a moment from that semester that has stayed with me was Bill looking out a window, pausing the discussion of a poem for a surprisingly long time, and saying in his almost-whisper, “Poets love birds.”
This, even outside the spell of Bill’s class, still seems true. Continue Reading
A man born with no arms and no legs, all torso and head, and one two-toed foot, jumped into a swimming pool and used his body to undulate to the surface. On a swath of country club grass, he sunk a putt and later, spun a hula-hoop around his neck. At age ten, he tried to drown himself in the bathtub. He slipped under the water and turned face down. He said his body was willing, but his mind wasn’t. Continue Reading
I wait for Wiley on the bridge over the dam where two beavers swim figure eights in the quiet water before gravity pulls it down to the brook we call Sugar Run, our place since that first night. We ignored the Keep Away signs, the way a cigarette dropped through the grey-worn slats that buckled like Grandma Mimi’s cancerous teeth. I tasted that wood with my tongue more than once when he held down my face Continue Reading
There is a space inside me dedicated to your needs.
I am thick, like the grass above a grave. There is nothing
glamorous about recollection. This morning, a sparrow Continue Reading
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