November 11-17, 2019: Poetry from Susan Herring and Anthony DiMatteo

Susan Herring and Anthony DiMatteo

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Susan Herring
sdherring16@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

A retired academic librarian and long-time writer and editor, Susan D. Herring has published numerous professional publications and has now returned to her early love of poetry. She lives in north Alabama with two cats.

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Susan Herring and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Raspberry Jam

Mother stirring a simmering mash,
Pushing damp hair off her forehead.
Kitchen filled with thick steam
Rich with the sharp sweet scent
Of raspberry jam.

Setting out jars and lids,
My fingertips still tender
From yesterday’s berry picking.
Pulled gently from the thorny bush,
Dropped into the bucket.
Insistent buzz of mosquitoes,
Distant screams of terns,
Boots slippery with bear scat and dew.
Heady smell of moss and ripe berries,
Rich mud flats and sour fish.

Today I twist open a fresh jar.
The lid pops, memories surge,
Distilled in the sharp sweet scent
Of raspberry jam.


Kitchen Morning

Soft grunt, cat jumps into chair,
Claws pop upholstery,
Stretches out full length, head over the edge.
Background hum of fans
Fridge clicks, rumbling as the cooler kicks in.

 

 


Anthony DiMatteo
anthonydimatteo@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Anthony DiMatteo’s recent poems and reviews have sprouted in Clade SongThe Cortland ReviewHunger MountainLos Angeles ReviewUCity Review, and Verse Daily. His current book of poems In Defense of Puppets has been hailed as, “a rare collection, establishing a stunningly new poetic and challenging the traditions that DiMatteo (as Renaissance scholar) claims give the poet ‘the last word'”(Cider Press Review).

The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Anthony DiMatteo and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Denouement

What we had not realized, we had to
live with, that gargantuan hump of stench,
mammoth of pure rot. Marriage and age
we knew about, how our parents labored
to keep the jingle in their bed, but that
monstrous landfill across the highway?
Nada. Paid no mind while we bought
the condo. We could blame the agent
who stressed the steal of a deal we got
but the daily odor strongly suggested
otherwise. Getting into bed we held
our noses. The lemon scent the city
sprayed only made the smell go weirder,
perfume on a corpse or stale wedding cake.

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