Sagar Kulkarni Tragedy, Ecstasy, Doom, and so on by Kip Knott, Kelsay Books, 2020, $18.50 paperback Reviewed by C. Cimmone They tell you in school to write with careful descriptions in order to “project the reader to another place.” This task is easily achieved when writing long prose, but when writing short poetry, it can be a challenge. Fortunately, Kip Knott did not see this as a challenge when producing his poetry collection Tragedy, Ecstasy, Doom, and so on. Knott’s var

by C. Cimmone C. Cimmone/Olivas It was his last birthday we shared together: him, the two kids, and me. I picked up pizza on my way home from work. I stopped at the market for his green iced cake and a birthday card that simply read, “Happy Birthday to My Husband.” He enjoyed the frilly lines of the birthday card, and gave himself an extra dose of insulin after the birthday candles were blown out. I gathered the babies and he opened the front door. The day was still warm, but

by C. Cimmone Nikolas Noonan Tornado I used to love thunderstorms at night, But the lightening reminds me that I’m afraid Of the night when the power goes out And everything dies As the earth spins out of control. I hear the neighbors walking from the kitchen To the bathroom — Eerie footsteps like ghosts in the attic, Boards cracking and pinching in the still air. I worry my door is now paper thin: Bad guys know I have no light. They can push on the doorknob and the door just

by C. Cimmone C. Cimmone I only did what I had to this morning Before I drove to my appointment. I stood in line at the market and Thought about that Christmas song I love. Do you remember it playing on Thanksgiving night — and we held hands in Marble Falls? * I remember all of these strange things. I guess you have to remember when you need to forget. One day, it will all be gone And I’ll only have a few things to carry: How you cried in that stiff hospital chair when our ba

by C. Cimmone Brooks Leibee Yesterday I went into a jewelry store with a friend. She was looking for fancy bracelets and rings. Harmless it seemed. Mundane, almost. The front door was grand and silver. Glass cases filled the room — horizontal and studied with downward gazes of shoppers. The salesmen’s pressed suits, black and tight, were a great contrast to the cream carpet beneath their feet. We meandered between cases and smiled politely at intense patrons of the diamond ev

by C. Cimmone Alexander Mass 1. He loved me. He also loved cocaine and strippers. I didn’t mind fucking him on sheets covered with shimmery left-overs. He slumped at my front door about it all while I hid my new beau in the bedroom closet. My mother still asks about him. 2. He went off to law school and I stayed behind. Before he left he carried me to the hospital. He played his guitar while I recovered from my suicide attempt. He never got mad at me. I should have followed h

by C. Cimmone Carl Beech We come here when everything has left. We walk along the broken topped jetty to purge our mind, but the seagulls nip at our stumbling bodies. The waves taunt us with the mirage of being washed back out into sea. Forgotten trees wash up on the shore and we kick at them like fragile children longing for attention. We come here to belong to nothing — to no one. We come here when all hope is lost. We put our back to the sea and know when the money from ou

by C. Cimmone Isabella Fischer That day draws itself in my mind like a broken piece of plywood — jagged angles and wisps, spiny picks and thick chunks — being forced back together by angry, exhausted hands; but I will try to tell you the story without conjuring sadness or sympathy. I will tell you about the two rosaries and you can let it sit and weigh, but only for a few seconds — and then you must release it back out into the universe. Let it rest. Let the story of the rosa

by C. Cimmone Roman Denisenko I hated having sex in the shower, but I was a dutiful wife: I held on to a soppy wet rag, moaned and moved as he finished, all the while rolling my eyes with impatience. “Mommy! The stove is making a funny noise!” “Shit. The casserole.” I reached for a towel with insincerity. He washed his hair, leaned his head back and stood relieved, still with open legs and closed eyes as I carefully escaped the bathroom. The kids had forgotten about the beepi

by C. Cimmone Spencer Plouzek Sometimes when the waters rose too high and the intercoastal was too dangerous to pass, our bus would turn around right in front of the drawbridge and Judy Finger would wave her gross knuckles to those of us who were less than fortunate. Her claymation face was distraught but relieved and I assumed she would retire to her rickety beach house and play with her vagina well into the morning. Judy Finger kept no secret that she had a vagina. She was