Salamander 2024 Fiction Contest

SUBMIT: May 1 through June 2, 2024 | READING FEE: $15

SUBMIT ENTRIES NOW

Louise

poetry
  She was here, no she was really here. She had taken her shoes off, sat down at the foot of your bed, hand on your peace-white hand, her picnic…

from The Last Bohemian of Avenue A

poetry
  This train stop at Liberty Airport used to be fields, now folks rush into the city, going home or away to a new beginning. I find myself checking for…

Selected Haiku for Jenny

poetry
  There are days of no poems. Not even 17 sounds will come. Why is Joan Didion walking congo baby tiger in my dream? Frog in the pond. Scoop her…

End-Song

poetry
  During life I wanted to be buried in a mystery. On a western estuary where seabirds nest. To drop into a piece of muck and shell, unnamed. Wind, low…

My bird, myself

poetry
  Dwarf plants, brittle green, A premature llama, a white giraffe Splashed clean, a pouter pigeon With an inflatable crop. These are the limit of my estate. The first pouter…

Now a Darkness is Coming

poetry
  I hold my life with two hands. I walk with two legs. Two ears are enough to hear Bach with. Blinded in one eye, a person sees with the…

Untitled

poetry
  Night, the street, the lamp, the drugstore, An empty and toothless light. Live another twenty years more— There’s no way out. No use to fight. You die; rebirth is…

Recovery

poetry
  Standing here at the kitchen sink washing the breakfast dishes, I can see this favorite yellow coffee cup of mine, brought back from Italy ten years ago, will break…

Untaught, I Knew

poetry
  A saturated past his nod, that untaught, I’d known sacred slant and tilt, in silence, spoke a red blaze to the green man, unmoving and dark as a forest…

Green Offering

poetry
  Here is my first offering, love: The first time I flew over the Citadelle (The clouds above it shifting to bare its vast self: Fortress meant to keep the…

Saint Augustine

poetry
  Saint Augustine preached humility & the need to simply be on the ground. Do you wish to rise? he asked. What would he say of these words then, which,…

Fry’s Spring Filling Station

poetry
  —Charlottesville, VA   I am sitting in a station built in the Depression, an island in a scrap drive sea. Now they’ve converted, serve fire-roasted vegetables, plates of bread.…