c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art

EDITOR'S CHOICE: cynthia linville's

Mary Zeppa

for Quinton (Q) Duval

By Mary Zeppa

Spy the cloud in the shape
of Q's quarter moon.
Spy the silver-blue,
fit-for-kings cloud.

Spy King Q the First
in his chariot,
drawn by oxen
as blue as their blood.


Such angels as I knew
left me bemused, limp
by the side of the road.

Q knew them all, knew
the names of their dogs,
ran with the heavenly crowd.


Flower by the river road,
wild-river flower
crushed by the heel of a child

rescued by Q for his buttonhole.
Hand-to-hand combat
with God.

Previously published in Poetry Now

Puddle by Allyson Seconds

Puddle by Allyson Seconds


By Mary Zeppa

From a bench by the duck pond, we ogle
the promenade: dads, moms and grandmas
tote goggle-eyed babies (sleek, bobbing
heads all done up in pink

ribbons). Little boys strut in their buckaroo
hats. Tall-man-on-green-bank readies
his camera, lens set to take-it-all-in.
Suddenly, hurtling over the grass,

man-on-a-bicycle clatters up
next to us. Calls out, "Ladies!
Will you watch my bike?" (As he
turns to look back

over his shoulder,
his long, auburn braid
taps his waist.) "I'm waiting for
the mother," he adds. "Sure,"

we say, looking around
for her. Thinking a woman
(maybe our age, grey-haired,
leaning hard on a cane). But

"There she is!" he shouts, looking up
as a mother duck lands on the pond. He
bids us look into his tall, plastic wastebasket,
out of which, in a fuzzy cuddle-close

bundle, four ducklings gaze dizzily up.
"They were crossing the street. She must
have thought they could keep up." He
lowers the waste basket (gently,

so gently) on its side to the green
sloping bank. Out they wriggle, then
hustle, then quick-step, then splash:
and away they go, swimming expertly.

They disappear. They've swum for cover,
nestle somewhere in the reeds.
No death today. Not in this park
where Annie and I, Mondays, walk.

Monet Pond by Katy Brown

Monet Pond by Katy Brown


By Mary Zeppa

Aphrodite born nubile, born flawless and rosy
from loins of castrated god. Aphrodite
born rising from ocean, from

Botticelli's sweet mind. You
murmuring, "My little Aphrodite." Me
floating naked in an icy stream.

To Eve and Adam, we were distant
cousins. Too many generations,
long removed. But innocence,

I think, was still the point: our sins
washed clean by all that icy water,
our lives had mercy: they began again.

Mary Zeppa
Mary Zeppa

Mary Zeppa's poems have appeared in such print and online journals as Perihelion, Switched-on Gutenberg, Zone 3, The New York Quarterly, Permafrost and Redux, and in several anthologies. She is author of two chapbooks, Little Ship of Blessing and The Battered Bride Overture, and was Executive Editor of Keepers of the Flame: The First Thirty Years of The Sacramento Poetry Center. Zeppa's full-length collection, My Body Tells Its Own Story, is now available from the Cherry Grove imprint of Word Tech Press.

home   |  submit
Editorial Staff   |  Editors' Choice
archive   |  links