Rappahannock Review | Emily Vizzo
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Forked Roads by John Francis Istel
“How many candles do you see? Mother? How many? Can you see how many? Sit up.

Waking by Karin C. Davidson
“‘Sleep, sleep, sleep,’ my mother says. But I cannot help thinking about waking the next morning.”

The Box by Greg Bottoms
“Danny Glover—a fourteen-year-old white kid from Smithfield, Virginia, not the actor from…”

Form-Fall by Marco Wilkinson
“A tree evaporates into the universe and falls back to earth: timber to paper to coffee cup to compost to dirt.”

Swept by Emily Vizzo
“Startling, this body-bump of asterisks finding its way…

Sea Lion by Emily Vizzo
“The stink of him came to me first, a salty hit of kelp…

Mario’s Grocery Has No Cameras by Chris Mink
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During the Tornado, I’m Thinking of Stars by Sara Henning
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The Dead Wait on the Living to Go on Living by Kim Garcia
“The chairs wide-mouthed and silent in each others’ presence…

Mountain Aubade by Kim Garcia
“Inside a blue-cupped palm, yellow tipped mountain, wild dogwood, pine…

Mending by Ruth Foley
“For once, I am not thinking of a place…”

Doubt is the angel of our time by Ruth Foley
“Of any time, I’d wager—any movement…

Cleansing Flights by Ruth Foley
“The temporary unfurling of the rhododendron…

Pitcher by Will Cordeiro
“I’m such a flirt…

Wild Horse / Wild Deer by John Casteen
“Deep beneath the night, its lidded vault of stars…”

Figure by John Casteen
“As in, cuts an elegant…”

I Saw You by JC Bouchard
“I saw you on the roundabout…”

Emily Vizzo

Sea Lion

 

The stink of him came to me first, a salty hit of kelp
& fat-rot. The dank bulk of the bloated lion shushed,
clogged the pink swish of twilight surf.

Perhaps two days dead. Above the dull head danced
four children & the flank of an upraised
shovel. They were popping the gassy beast,

that lowly rolling bull. His skin hissed.
Their father watching from beneath a blue tent.
Offshore platforms twinkling, nodding

hammer heads into deep-sea oil. Red-tide
bioluminescence. A freight
train shaking each flat leaf

among the trees of the banana plantation.
Beneath its heavy wheels, crushed pennies.
The awful children return to their camper.

When I go to stand near the savaged sea lion,
he is still dead. I already know what I am,
& nothing new in me emerges.

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