THE DANDELION REVIEW

[Pages:121]THE DANDELION

REVIEW

Issue 3 2019

Cover photo: Jack Meriwether Cover design: Sarah Sandman Copyright ? 2019 by The Dandelion Review All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. Issue 3: 2019 The Dandelion Review Fort Wayne, Indiana The Dandelion Review seeks to publish women and writers on the lgbtqiaa+ spectrum. The magazine is published at least once a year. Submission requirements can be found on the website: Editor: Sarah Sandman Reader: Erica Anderson-Senter

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Dear Readers and Writers,

It is my privilege to once again get to write a note at the front of a Dandelion Review issue. This is our third issue, and since the press has begun, we have also published seven chapbooks! What fun it has been. We have more books on the docket so keep track of us.

Perhaps one of my favorite parts of the process is watching a magazine come together just as the spring buds begin to imagine popping in this Midwest landscape where I live. Soon, the first vestiges of new life will be blooming from the winter-beaten ground. I think we are always happy to see the little crocuses, the most hearty, and seemingly most delicate little flowers. The writing in this issue reminds me of those tender flowers--able to rise up after harshness, able to retain such beauty no matter the previous winter.

This issue is really special to me as well, because for the first time, the magazine will exist in a world without Mary Oliver. If you know Mary Oliver's work, then you likely have been deeply changed by it. When Erica, my dandelion-partner-in-crime and social media goddess, and I heard the news of Mary's passing (we feel we have known her even though we never met her in person), we knew we should have an event. And so, the Dandelion held a reading in honor of this wonderful writer. Each person read from Mary Oliver's work, and then also their own. Two different musicians played songs. The night was amazing and wonderful and sad and hopeful.

Mary Oliver has taught me so many things, and while they may or may not be noticeable in this issue or any other manuscript I have ever produced, know that she is there. She is there when I tell my students "Free verse is not, of course, free." Or when I'm noticing the dandelion, or the raven, or the blade of grass and I think, "To pay attention, this is our proper and endless work."

I hope you enjoy this issue as much as I have enjoyed living with all these pieces near me. I hope too, you'll go out and find some Mary Oliver poems just when you need them.

As always, thank you for supporting small presses with your work and your reading. Thank you for using your words to make our world a better place.

Let's keep being kind to one another, and keep writing!

Sarah Founder and Editor

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Table of Contents:

Shanan Ballam

6

Em Beard

8

Charlie Becker

11

Shannon Bryant

17

Michael J Carter

19

Chella Courington

22

Ricki Cummings

25

Jenifer DeBellis

31

Morrow Dowdle

37

Minna Dubin

40

Sara Eddy

42

Linda McCauley Freeman

45

Kara Goughnour

48

Megan Hines

52

Matthew Landrum/Katrin Ottarsd?ttir/S?mal Soll 54

Amy Lauren

66

Lisa Mas?

69

Emily Miller

71

Julia Lee Barclay-Morton

76

Claire Nelson

79

Sheila Packa

82

Stacy Pendergrast

84

JC Reilly

86

Sherry Rind

88

Felicia Rose

90

Mandy Shunnarah

92

Linda Simone

93

Ellen McGrath Smith

96

Bekah Steimel

97

Olivia Torres

99

Juanita Tovar

101

Sara J. Winston

106

Ariadne Wolf

111

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POETRY

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DARK THOMAS by SHANAN BALLAM Dark Thomas drank the days. Artistic Thomas sang. He hated Dad who broke the toilet falling down. Thomas broke the toilet falling down and hated. The sisters left vast holes in the house never looking back

even though they knew how drunk their parents' hands. His head felt like a tether ball smacked around, though all counts and evidence said they loved him best, the youngest & planned, named before conception. But Thomas was left behind and he was mad. No one could ever guess the plans he had.

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SPOILED THOMAS

Until he was twelve Thomas slept between Mom & Dad in bed--

Thomas pressed his face against Mom's arm, the plush fat, pressed his face against her perfume satin neck-- he brushed his palm across Dad's shiny scalp-- heard the breath catch, surprised, in Dad's mouth, and then Dad's deep sleep of whiskey back, Thomas rolled in his fingers Dad's thin hair flap, breathing musk. He was the youngest, The only one who ever got to sleep with mom and dad. To him, they were never cruel.

They slept sweet like this even after they drank tequila & Mom screamed I fucking hate you & Dad nearly snapped mom's foot in two-- they slept like this even after Dad got his ass tossed in jail & Mom refused bail, but he somehow got out and walked home thirteen miles in the rain to stand seething in the bedroom doorway-- they slept like this even after Mom guzzled the box of wine & pressed the knife to her wrist. Even after Thomas heard Mom whisper to Carol his sister she was going to smother Dad with a pillow in his sleep & they'd never catch her--

Thomas stretched diagonal, shoving them to the edges, leaving them with only a sliver of the blanket, shivering, their drunken snoring rasps. Sometimes Thomas cupped his hands across their mouths just to hear them gasp.

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WAKING UP ON THE FIFTH FLOOR by EM BEARD My own body leaning against cold wood, I pace an old apartment window to watch the dawn dripping crimson. The houses below--dark still life frame their Victorian shadows over Pennsylvania Street. An incandescent flicker turns my head from the unwrapped sun into a bedroom window. Inside, both bodies are softly folded, fused by their sternums--four areolas press together. My thighs imagine their cleric hands pulling me onto my knees, between both openings--my fingers dipping into sticky pools. Throats humming names of gods--do not stop moving those tongues--salve on my hot labial burn. Our moans crisscross the street in staccato pants. Each breath breaking pink into the sun. Three open mouths give praise to the light.

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