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Petrichor Review Issue #1

Petrichor Review Issue #1

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Published by PetrichorPress

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Published by: PetrichorPress on Dec 14, 2012
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved


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Obsessive Personality

Valentina Cano

Morning is not
the best time to learn to juggle.

The pins, solid enough at frst,

begin to trail pieces,
wood shavings.
What trickles out
coats your hands in a sticky resin,
making you stumble.
Making you crack the wood

against the foor like

readjusting knuckles.
Morning asks to be covered up
in a shroud while the
pieces are gathered,
while the juggler
paints landscapes of pain.
Of all the moments
dressed in hot courage,
the morning is the only one with teeth.
My eyes are lowered
like parachutes.
The moment sees me.
The moment ignores me.


The Book on the Right

Walter Campbell

I should move the book back.
The book on the right end of the coffee table. It’s sitting
next to a laptop, which is next to an empty cup that once con-
tained lime-favored seltzer, which is next to a magazine de-
tailing how to stay cool during summer runs, which is next to

two remote controls (one black, one gray) which are on top

of a blank piece of printer paper that was going to be used

for directions to RadioShack. That book. Someone moved it.

And I should move it back.

It was probably just an accident. Someone set something
down, or picked something up, or bumped it while walking
by, and it shifted.
But I don’t care why it moved; I care that it moved.

It was perfectly aligned with the top corner and far right edge

of the table. It ft smoothly, outlining exactly the shape of

that end of the coffee table, showing all the contours, in case
anyone was interested. Now, it outlines nothing and shows
no contours.

I won’t move it back, though. I promised I’d ignore these
sorts of things, so I won’t move it back.
It means nothing. It’s just a book. I don’t even know what

book. Cookbook, sci-f, classic: who knows? Could be any
book. Really it’s just the book that outlines the far right and

top edge of the coffee table.
That is, until someone bumped into it, sliding it a few inches
to the right. Inches! Not millimeters, but full inches! They
might as well have chucked it across the damn room.

But it’s not their fault. I promised I’d remember that it’s not
their fault. They don’t care about this as much as I do, and
that’s normal.


I won’t move it.

But they shouldn’t have moved it either. Bumped a book and

didn’t fx it? What’s wrong with them?

I won’t, though. It’s fne right there. That’s a great place for a

book. I’ll leave it there, and that’ll be its new perfect spot.

But what if someone moves it from there?

Maybe I should just move it back.

But I said that I wouldn’t. I promised. And it’s not like my
balls are going to fall off if I don’t.

But what if they did? Then I’d know I could have stopped it
just by moving this one book.

Now I’m just making a mockery of myself. That’s ludicrous.
My balls aren’t going to fall off because of a book. This book
isn’t a machete, or a samurai sword, or a butcher’s knife, or a
veterinarian’s scalpel. Nothing this book does can affect my

But still, I could just move it.

I won’t. I won’t move it.

It was so perfect, though. The absolute pinnacle of books
on coffee tables; a piece of modern art sculpted solely from
household objects.

I won’t move it, I think, but my hand’s already reaching.


The Pages of My Mind are Forever Turning Charlotte McKnight

Lusting For Books

Joseph Farley

In the hour before training at the union hall begins
I wander into Borders and slather over books.
My psychologist has told me to curb my appetite
lest I ruin my mind, but the desire is still there.
I take books one by one from the shelves,
fondle them, smell the fresh scent of new pages,
clean and crisp as a woman’s perfumed hair,

run my fngers over the words like the skin

of a paramour, trace the spine of each novel,
with tongue search out the sounds of poems.

Pent up emotions can fnd no release.

There is no time, no money in my pocket,
and no room in my house for more jealous lovers.


Venus of the Corn Stubble

G.A. Saindon

December morning stars,
Hidden by a sun unseen
But heaving his shoulders.
Frozen birds, frozen tracks greet
The farmer, his tractor and the great
Weight of wet, warm manure
Steaming and twirling through the frozen air,

Blessing the soil, dressing the feld.

A thick, sultry plume from the wagon

Rises voluptuous and tall toward a planet

Single in the East, dawn’s beauty mark.

She can only turn her head
So far before she’ll lose her balance
And her constellation,
So Venus grits her teeth, grimaces –

The swollen, tart mist reaches her
Not to be ignored –

“How do you like my moves, sister?”


Demeter’s Nests

Thomas Zimmerman

Tonight the basement-window lights across
the street have made the neighbors’ house a head
that’s buried up to its eyes. A god’s incisors
shine through yews that beard the house next door.
The apple tree’s the mummy of a Titan
that escaped castration. Look: that sparrow dead
upon the curb’s a womb of festering life.
Inside, the heat has piqued a rhododendron’s
long stray ray atop my mother’s hope chest.
While you comb your hair, I see your breasts
through rustling silks. In the mirror’s
eye, you’re cowled in brown-gold bees. My prone

torso’s a stubble-feld: at your touch, something wild
and shiny-crested shudders into fight.

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