"...the lap dog’s triangular head at rest facing us like an enormous blackened sex."

More Perihelion:

BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series


Needto Know



Issue9: The Missing Body

Issue8: The Lily

Issue7: Passages

Issue6: No More Tears

A quick list to poets featured in this issue:

Quan Barry

Cal Bedient

Joshua Bell

Nadia Colburn

Carolena Ebeid

Odysseas Elytis

Nathalie Handal

Connie Hershey

Timothy Liu

Drago Stambuk

Timothy Liu


Clutching hard to handouts tantamount to love

scrawled on a cocktail napkin stashed inside

a mother’s purse in lieu of watching us perform

as boredom shows, or few, or none, a ghost

scaling up that brick façade where three stone

busts preside—Whitman, Dickinson, Keats—

bolted as they are to a crumbling window ledge.


Woman With Dog, 1917

Meaty flowers plastered to a stuffed
crimson chair, her folded elbows
propped on a canine’s jackaled spine—
the lap dog’s triangular head at rest
facing us like an enormous blackened
sex. It made its way to the Midwest
nonetheless—a gift from Owen &
Leone Elliot who could spot a fair
Soutine. Imagine them looking at this
thing each night in that farmhouse
along the edge of the Iowa River
with a meat-and-potatoes mouthful
of corn right off the cob. No wonder
they had no choice but to give it up.



Sun-bleached forelock poking out of a backwards
baseball cap. And it’s spring again—jeans torn

above both knees, the crotch mended with a patch.
This morning’s sun lighting up the length of it

from here to where you are, a bathrobe coiled
around your feet. Had wanted to say. Had loved

the place. The spot quote: staging the appearance
as disappearance. It’s spring again—a squadron

of tornadoes touching down near Disney World, all
the world “Disneyfied,” or so you said slumming

across Times Square that summer before the sex
stores closed—El Niño up against the West Coast.