February 9, 2017 / Creative Writing
In this poem, D. S. Martin finds that a word is worth a thousand pictures.
March 3, 2016
Winningest coach gets sacked
for a few hundred cups of spit,
striated, cavernous chests
on boys who should, statistically,
be long-haired and dimpled,
tobacco stains on fingernails
grown long to pick a guitar,
pump out those three-chord
blessings, the ones that
make us strain and grunt
and strive while the wrestler,
the jock, spends his nights creating
kinesthetic harmonies, strumming,
muting, plucking out six-minute
symphonies we know nothing of
in our culture of dribbles
and dunks where there’s always
a teammate to pass the ball to,
teacher to blame when we
lock hands, flee the mat.
Bethany Bowman lives in Indiana, with her husband and two children, and works in Taylor University’s art department. Her most current poems can be found in Apple Valley Review, Kentucky Review, Midwestern Gothic, and Timberline Review, and she has poems forthcoming in Blueline, Lime Hawk, Relief, and Windhover.