Tag: first publication

Three Poems by Austin Petersen

~ ONE ART: a journal of poetry ~ 8 Comments

The Passenger

My teenage daughter tells me there are times
when she wishes she wasn’t here—

I try to hide my panic as she sits on her bed,
not looking at me,
fingers tracing the creases on her sleeve.

Before she can finish the sentence,
the rest is already in my throat—

I sit down and wrap my arm around her,
stinging tears already matching hers.

I want to say, me too, sometimes.
I want to say, it’s been with me
for years, this quiet passenger—
the wish not to die, but to just
not exist—
never have existed.

What can I say to fix her,
when I don’t even know how to fix myself?
Lump in my throat, I whisper
it’s all going to be ok,
that it’ll get better with time—
I choke on the words.

I tell her that I stay for her—
and I need her to stay for me—
she’s not a burden, she’s the tether
that keeps me here on the hard days.

She whispers she loves me too.
We hold each other for a long time,
sobbing.

We don’t fix each other,
but we stay.

*

Scratches and a Bent Shifter

My eight-year-old brother blazed around the house
on our new red and white Honda Z50R motorcycle,
revs climbing with each lap.
At the end of the gravel he turned too fast,
leaned too far—
tipped over and slid to a stop,
metal grinding on rock.

The engine sputtered out.

I stood frozen as Dad’s footsteps came fast behind me,
bracing for his shoulders to square,
for the sharp holler—
we’d just wrecked the new bike
he’d gotten us for Christmas.

Instead, I heard a soft voice:
“Does anything hurt?”
He knelt beside my brother,
freed his pinned leg and helped him to his feet.

I had to clear my throat:
“Dad, is the motorcycle broken?”
He glanced at the scratched tank and bent shifter, then at me—
“It’s just stuff. I can’t replace my kids.”

As the engine cooled, the ticking slowed—
so did my breathing.
My eyes left the bike,
still lying in the gravel,
to Dad brushing the dust from my brother’s jeans.

*

Letter from a Turkey

Mom lets me check the mail today.
I march through the crunchy leaves to the mailbox.
Among the junk and bills—
an envelope with grandma’s handwriting.
For me.

I run inside and shout for my little brother and sister—
“Come see my first letter!”
They crowd around me on the faded blue recliner
as I carefully open the flap.

Three pages unfold—
a collage of rubber stamps, hand-drawn pictures,
magazine cutouts and stickers,
her handwriting weaving between them all.

A turkey sticker next to the words “Do you ever feel like”
and BIG cut from a magazine twice.
Trevor giggles— “A big turkey!”

Mom taps a heart stamp with a bite missing,
“she forgot your birthday and feels terrible about it.”

I scowl at the piano stamp reminding me to practice,
then groan at the pun she built—
sticks and a honeybee:
“It sure wood bee great if you lived nearby.”

Then, at the bottom—
Two stick figures, grandma and grandpa,
arms stretched from edge to edge of the page,
blue ocean waves stamped underneath.

“We love you THIS MUCH.”

Lindy traces the waves with her fingers:
“It’s like the whole ocean.”

I fold it carefully,
tuck it in the envelope.

Thirty years later, I pull it out.
My own kids piled on me in the recliner—
little fingers tracing the ocean waves.
My daughter asks,
“Can we read it again?”

I tell her yes—
but if the house ever catches fire,
save grandma’s letter first.

*

Austin Petersen is a Missouri boy transplanted to Utah, where he lives with his wife and five daughters. He came to poetry late, convinced for years that anything he wrote would pale in comparison to his influences. When he finally admitted this to his oldest daughter, she called his bluff and bought him a book of prompts. They in fact do pale in comparison to his favorites, but here we are anyway. As an AI technology sales engineer by day, he is drawn to the analog of putting ideas to paper. His poems explore memory, fatherhood, and the stories that shape us—particularly the childhood moments we carry without knowing why. This is his first publication.

Three Poems by M.L. Hedison

~ ONE ART: a journal of poetry ~ 6 Comments

Everyone knows sex is for men

my aunt said at eighty two—
between bites of quiche, sips of tea.
My young cousins and I stared

at our plates, shifted in our seats.
Chaste for thirty years
after her husband died, she put

sex on the table. Family matriarch
ready to tell all. One sexual partner
her entire life. A mercurial man,

moody, dark – quick with a bark.
Left with three boys to raise alone,
she praised him—love story

of her life. She wore slippers,
better to walk on eggshells.
Held her tongue. Unable to say

what gave her pleasure. This spot,
not there, here yes, right there.
Sex more duty than desire.

Repetitive like laundry.
As she spoke to us, oxygen
finally filled her lungs.

*

SILENT NIGHT

There are no airport runs
no one coming home to us.
Drive of wonder, glow of lights—

each year, we carry the biggest
tree into the house. Whiff of pine
on my hands, perfume.

Fills the space where kids
should be. Blinking color, angels
on their knees, amaryllis

about to burst. The image,
my three brothers and me,
five in the morning.

Huddled in one bedroom.
Oldest can tell time, still too early.
My father’s firm hand against the wall.

Why can’t you be like you were,
last treasure, a tangerine
in the toe of my stocking.

*

FOR FLORENCE

The cold bit off my fingers the day I buried you.
Jackhammer opened the earth.
Slabs of dirt to welcome you.
Not sun or birds or green pillow to kneel on.

This is when I turned solid,
fire hose in winter.
Nylon stockings covered my feet.
Your warm glow given at birth –
now a thin muslin shroud, no blanket.

A dull ache of clouds shivered with damp.
My head bowed to cut the wind.
Priest’s vestments blew black in snow.
I can’t leave you in the cold.

Grief still has me on my back,
boot at my throat.
I take in the plants at night so they don’t die.
I can’t remember your hands.

*

M.L. Hedison is an emerging poet based in the coastal town of Wakefield, R.I. She is a former advertising creative director and writer. Her work explores themes of absence, longing, and her Armenian family through lyrical verse. She has been writing poetry for three years and continues to study with Jennifer Franklin, Martha Collins and Wyn Cooper. M.L. is so grateful to have her work published for the first time in ONE ART.

Two Poems by Julie Suhr

~ ONE ART: a journal of poetry ~ 1 Comment

Late Light

Once again, late light stretches
its tawny body across the dry meadow.
Sorrow-edged and reluctant,
it lets loose its grasp of the thin world,
sliding the trees into shadow.
A coolness rings my shoulders.
I gather my breath, and hold still.

In the underbrush, birds and mice
look fervently for seeds.
Three deer glide silently
into the open and graze.
My aloneness pitches skyward
and falls, as a great white owl
dips over the grasses,
opens its wings
to the night.

*

The Days and Nights Are Passing

Across the long, fenced yard
a bird, gray, nondescript
hatches its twilight dance,
its relentless scratching
against the dull, dry earth.
A black cadence, the day’s
shadow rises with the moon,
the coupling met with grave
indifference, like the glances
of strangers, hands gathering
apples, the snapping of stems
in the boughs of trees.

*

Julie Suhr (she/her) is a writer/editor living in Los Angeles, California, who has worked extensively in the fields of publishing, healthcare and mental health services. She holds master’s degrees in English and Counseling Psychology. Julie began writing poetry at a young age and often explores her relationship with nature and the environment in her work. She is honored to have her first published poems, “Late Light” and “The Days and Nights Are Passing,” appear in ONE ART.