I like to tell it like it happened in July so

there can be implications of watermelons,



In December, though, the blood on the house and snow

are peony blooms in red and white.


But if it’s in July, there can be an image of my grandmother

leaned up against her spade,

the handle tucked up into her body,

the silver head tucked into the soil,

the top of her lip moist,

the dead dog next to her, inert.


If it’s in July, there can be flies,

swarms of flies,

covering the opened up parts of my dog

so that I can’t see the insides.


I can have my grandmother rest

for a bit over the hole and say:

the foxglove ain’t comin up this year.

Although, there’s never been any foxglove

and all I can imagine are thick leaves

and milk oozing from its anonymous roots

to saturate the soil.


In December, we find her still-alive and the neighbor across

the stumped over corn field sews her bits back together.


If it’s in July, she can stoop down to grasp a leg,

to chuck my dog into the hole.

It can be under the willow tree,

and I can crouch on my hams to peer over the side before

my grandmother begins to throw the dirt back in.


In December, my father goes out at night to find the

dogs that attacked her.

When he finds them,

he shoots them and throws their

bodies on their owner’s porch.


If it’s in July I can feel the sun on my head.

Grandmother pats the last of the dirt with her hands

and asks me if I want some potato salad.


In December, my dog lives and I feed her small pieces of old pizza

while she rests on a blanket in the basement.




Nicole Mason received her MA in Literature at Northern Michigan University and currently teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Indiana University of South Bend. Sometimes she writes poems. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in SOFTBLOW, (b)OINK, Farther Stars Than These, and Cease, Cows.


The town was small.

The museum was small,

free, and uncrowded.

He looked at the painting

with the artist’s name

faded to nothing.

It stayed with him

all that summer

and the years that followed.

A smiling girl with a sleeping dog.




Robert Halleck is a retired bank president who fills his days with hospice volunteering, greyhound rescue, and poetry. He has a weakness for open mic poetry readings and autocross racing. He underwrites a yearly poetry prize at Norwich University. In the last 50 years three volumes of his poems have been published. His recent work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annuals, The Paterson Literary Review, The Galway Review, The Lake, and a number of other interesting places.