I received an email this week from the fine journal no tokens. I had submitted to them once last year and got a very polite rejections. This time, it was very encouraging. According to Duotrope, a submission tracker I use, the average response time for no tokens is 31 days and but it was 65 days for this one so I think it really was under consideration. Looks like I’ve got a Submission Sunday coming up to get them back out there.
Dear James Escher,
Thank you so much for sending us “James Escher Poems”. Although we are going to pass, we enjoyed these poems very much. We particularly admired “Napa Cabbage,” but, ultimately, it does not quite fit into the narrative of this current issue.
I hope that you’ll send us more work during our next reading period. Best of luck, in the meantime, with all of your current projects.
The Significance of Grass
Most winters, the yard
keeps its blueprint throughout the season,
the skeleton of the patio bricks buried and resurrected,
the splayed bones of sleeping azaleas balloon to giant cones and back.
Snow, too heavy for the wind, drifts in piles
behind the fence, where miniature glaciers recede and expand daily.
But last year was different. Snow fell in December
and stayed through February.
Winter didn’t notice my mother
or maybe it did, since the only
break I recall was the day of her service
and the black hole dug in the white snow,
the mats of artificial grass rolled out
in walkways from the road
to the canopy. A spray of roses,
foreign to the melting winterscape,
faded into the black and white and grey of the day.
By nightfall, snow took over again,
smothering archipelagos of dead grass,
we knew it was there,
waiting to be reborn.
We swear we saw it
on that one warm burial day
between the frosts and freezes
that no one else can remember.