Poetry & Art
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#4: ?

NOTEs on #4


Greg Stapp

Managing Editor

January 2020


Harbor Review


Power Play

When my lover tells me I cannot say no, and I protest, she parts my legs, says yes, baby. Yes. I do what I’m told. No becomes a foreign country. I take it as permission. Open season. So when the waiter asks if there’ll be anything else, I peruse his menu. I’m stuffed, but I say yes, cram my mouth with macaroons and chocolate. And when the Lyft driver seduces me in the rear-view, eyes me like prey, asks, May I kiss you? I say yes. And when the long-legged woman I’ve long lusted after at the gym wonders aloud if I’m single, asks me to dinner and a movie, I say yes. And when she invites me into her bed, what can I say but yes, yes, yes? And when my fan in Nova Scotia begs me to be his muse, to sanction an explicit ode to my breasts, my ankles, my lower lip, a poem he’d never show his wife, I cannot say no to his lust and delusion. Now he wants to climb me, sublime me, shoot me full of stars. Is this what you want, too? he writes, and I answer yes. And when I return to my lover at last and she sinks into the heady dampness between my thighs, looks up at me and asks, Have you been faithful? I say, Yes.

Alexis Rhone Fancher

Giving You the Chance to Live:

Divorced Father Explains

We didn’t like each other much,

but we could fuck twice a night.

Your mother will tell you she loved

me, but she spit on my socks

and cut tiny slices in the lining

of my new suitcase.  When she got shrill,

I thought, this child will owe us.

We are giving her a world, humid

and stuffed with life: jackrabbits,

prairie dogs, jumping spiders, manatee,

biting ants, hissing roaches, pumpernickel.

Nothing is as easy enough not to love

as your mother, your parents, the ache

of an irregular heart.  So I left you

to grow into the world I created.

Laura Lee Washburn

I-70 to St. Louis

Dirty cocksucker, Dad groaned alongside the backing tenor vocals of his car horn. My brother and I knew dirty cocksucker was bad. That exact combination of words, dirty, cock, sucker, drew the attention of the universe to our car like beaming spotlights on escaped convicts. We were a neon blip on the radar of the All-Knowing. Dalton and I silently snickered, waiting for more. Mom rested her head against her window’s cool glass, a blonde mannequin, hair speckled with the gray my brother and I never dared mention. Dad waved his middle finger around with each pump of the brakes.

Car after cocksucker car we passed. Drivers offered a slew of obscene gestures that Dad gladly returned. Toyotas painted in cocksucker greens and blacks cut Dad off; cocksucker semis inched along in the fast lane. Mom glared back at us, shaking her head, and finally laughed. And then, as all our laughter permeated the car, Dad chuckled too. We were now a vague, hazy cocksucker blip disappearing over the cocksucker horizon of the dirty cocksucker highway.

Cody Shrum




Alexis Rhone Fancher

Alexis Rhone Fancher is published in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Hobart, Verse Daily, Plume, Cleaver, and elsewhere. She’s authored five collections, most recently The Dead Kid Poems (KYSO Flash, 2019). A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Alexis is poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. www.alexisrhonefancher.com

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Cody Shrum

Cody Shrum is a second-year MFA candidate studying fiction at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Cody’s poetry has appeared in such journals as Rust + Moth, Kansas Time + Place, and velvet-tail, as well as the anthology, Kansas Time + Place: An Anthology of Heartland Poetry. He lives in Kansas City, Kansas with his wife, Kylee, and their two dogs, Zeus and Zoey.