Category / Issue #54 January 2016

Reviews | Daneen Wardrop &…

It is a strange irony that despite all of our war documentaries, battle reenactments, and tourist traps, the American Civil War remains a half-told tale. The valiant sacrifices of everyday Americans—particularly those made by women, Native Americans, and African Americans

Editor’s Note

Readers: Welcome to Plume Issue # 54 –   January: And why not bid farewell to the holidays, happy as they have been – stuffed with gifts (a box of rapidly staling pfeffernusse, anyone?) — or unhappy as the case

Three Poems

I Became Friends I became friends with a girl who was in the institution with me, also fifteen, also getting shock treatment, a girl who was institutionalized after a suicide attempt I found epic in its ferocity: she swallowed a

Lily of the Forest

On the slopes of Mt. Ślęża, the cult of stone, virgin holding the fish, bear with the solar cross on its rump, all caged in wire mesh though the vandals still break through with their spraypaint. All the stops and

For a Theophoric Figure

Allen Grossman, in memoriam (1935–2014) Strange how first things dawn on us       late in the game,                                     again and again. Just last week, for instance,                                                 I learned of a young man’s lines that appeared on a page,


I’ll call you nowhere, now here: the cardinal’s almost almost almost, quite. Until the winter solstice there is less light than night. Then a whole other manna, in a manner of speaking. But darkness is so much faster than light.


He was a tall man on the edge of the couch with a cigarette on his fingers, eyes and mind thrown several mountains out the balcony. He was the distance between the life of that smoke before dissolving in the

Two Poems

Ferns    Wind thrums these green harps into sudden music low under the trees almost beneath our notice though cut at the stem they could fan the likes of Cleopatra into lazy concupiscence.   Cycle 1. Dawn Like an infant’s

The Barn

No one just Mary whose dreams are unspecial as pigeons and who never went to school keeping the secret in her own mud heart safe there in her handmade heart after the huge neutral wingedness scatters the hay and flurries

On the Banks of the Allegheny

We had started over again— an unpainted house with the new Chevy in the drive,   the model with the push-button transmission. The lots were new.  Rich brown   like expensive leather, the fresh turds nested in the unseeded lawn,


His face was a festival.  Inside it, as if helplessness remained one of the few things left worth fretting for, making some kind of show of, whatever lies half between, he turned, kept turning…Above him, leaves swam the air –

Two Views of Bercy

  I It seems that the sun has stopped and will move no more a haymaker at rest in the gray field beneath the towers her pink face shining through the branches over the roofs of Bercy Roving between the

Two Poems

YOUR PROBABILITY AMPLITUDE   I glance and a boson blinks into view.   A strong force beckons   even as a weak force radios decay.   The gravity of the situation   the magnetism   I observe and my attention

Mass Production

  I The wheel was always reinvented, so engineers reinvented the reinventing of invention of the cage of sameness.   II No two cylinders in a V8 engine are the same, as no two engines are the same. Oh yes,