Category / Issue #49 July 2015


Readers: Welcome to Plume Issue # 49 — July: And at last – it seems so long – we put our farewells behinds us and turn to happier subjects. For instance, a look over our – Plume’s – shoulder, where we


Soliloquy of a Tornado in the Distance I knew a girl once who threw her breakables at the dorm room wall and cursed her redhead lover in a strange tongue, and all my friends at college said, hell, she is

TWO POEMS by Christopher Crawf…

My Father Taught Me To Fish   Why did we have to kill you. No, that’s not it. How come I didn’t care
 or was even excited, exhilarated by your death.
 When we pulled you from the sea and onto

IN PROFILE by Sylva Fischerov…

IN PROFILE —translated by the author, Joshua Mensch and A. J. Hauner   Words hung into silence like a child’s legs over the edge of a garden wall: they couldn’t be finished only cut off A word is a figurine

Enchanted Egg #2 By Beckian F…

Enchanted Egg #2   When you look inside through the tiny porthole the lake looks back without blinking. A little girl has fallen from the raft floating away like a blue rooftop.  She stands under water in clouds of silt

Two Fat Braids Crossed at the …

Two Fat Braids Crossed ­­­at the Crown               Mishearing you holding out the gadget plug, I joke Discord?             Yes, I’d like a little more in general though not in the delicious sinkhole of our seven-year marriage.             I’m talking about a

TWO POEMS By Kelle Groom

THE LOST MUSEUM   All my life stars falling on cars, the laundry on the line, stars in my hair, open mouth, and in my chest a massive celestial body. How is it possible to feel you inside? The Lost

TWO POEMS By Karl Kirchwey

The Tiger In a tourist magazine about the amusements of Rome,             I saw a photograph of a tiger in the zoo,             head-on, glaring, as tigers are said to do, and last night, just before waking, I had a dream: the

TENEBRAE By Frannie Lindsay

Tenebrae   As grief begins taking up residence I look to my greyhound’s whitened face; to her deft, anatomical tongue swooping my cheek as if nothing has changed; to her headlong patience; her flanks no longer huntress-muscled; nails like the

Flour, Eggs, Milk, Baking Powd…

Flour, Eggs, Milk, Baking Powder, Salt and God O Best Beloved, tell me, if you know, why— the world over—when that woman bending toward the griddle, toward heat pushing through the a.m. chill, turns up a soft brown impression of


NIGHT COMMUNION We met at the revolving hotel door. You’d shaved three weeks of growth while I had three glasses of wine in the lounge—I was too early, I’d gone and come back. You’re late, you said. I touched your

THREE POEMS By Bruce Smith

THREE POEMS Bruce Smith I hitchhiked through Harrisburg once: night and some light dislocating, deranging the river and a highway which was a country road or an artifact of a market or a Cornell box and I got picked up


REMEMBERING RAY – AUG. 2,1998 – FOR TESS The invitation reads: “Please come together with friends of Raymond Carver and Tess Gallagher for a graveside remembrance marking the tenth anniversary of his death.” He calls to say he cannot come.


This month’s Featured Selection marks a return to our usual format of selected poems, this time from the remarkable David Clewell, with an introduction from Associate Editor for Special Projects, Nancy Mitchell.  After that lollapalooza of an interview, there are