Back to Issue Eleven.




Dry eyes, how I wanted a rainy day.
We got sun instead, some clouds,
my heels sticking in the sod.
There was a notice in the wrong paper,
turf, but no tombstone.
I wasn’t pretty enough for the occasion.
I had nothing to say.
When the sky turns in on itself,
how much can we endure?
I wrong myself with what can’t be undone.
The pottery I’ve chipped, the yarn I’ve unfurled,
her matchstick arms, her faded dress.
With my life she could have lived forever.
Dew on our faces. Watercolor world
running away.
I could split my fingers on light.
The magician makes a balloon-animal virus
and we applaud.
Disappointments gather round:
I need a show of hands.
But it’s evening, time to go in
and gather stones for her arrival.

Ginny Wiehardt’s work has appeared in journals such as Hotel AmerikaPN ReviewSpoon River Poetry Review, and Willow Springs. She has an MFA in Poetry from the Michener Center for Writers and her poetry collection was a finalist for the Ohio State University Press/The Journal Award in Poetry. Read more of her work at