Tag Archives: Red River Review

clarence wolfshohl | angel of dachau

Her eyes must be a cold sky blue, but on this grey mist day they are iron grey to fit the fix of her face amongst her ashen hair, the only looseness about her. She guides us through the chilled drizzle from barrack to bunker, across graveled yard flanked by watch tower and entry gate with its Nazi smirk of “Arbeit macht frei,” each place forcing her monologue of horrors, the speech sounding clear English with only a touch of Bavarian mountains flattened with the shame she knows with each word. Later, outside the barbed wire, she tells us she is an archaeologist, guides these tours only twice a month; she can do no more, she says, a tear allowed to fall.
SONY DSCClarence Wolfshohl is professor emeritus of English at William Woods University. He operated Timberline Press for thirty-five years until the end of 2010. His poetry and creative fiction have appeared in Concho River Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Colere, Rattlesnake Review, Cenizo Journal, San Pedro River Review, and Melic Review, Houston Literary Review, Right Hand Pointing and Red River Review online. He will be featured poet in the August 2013 Red River Review. A chapbook of poems about Brazil, Season of Mangos, was published by Adastra Press (2009) and a compilation of three earlier chapbooks, The First Three (2010) and Down Highway 281 (2011) were published by El Grito del Lobo Press. In Harm’s Way: Poems of Childhood in collaboration with Mark Vinz was published by El Grito del Lobo Press in early 2013. A native Texan, Wolfshohl now lives with his writing, two dogs and two cats in a nine-acre woods outside of Fulton, Missouri.

carol hamilton | volunteer peach tree

Its trunk is on my side of the chain link fence, but its heavy branches poked above his grass as well. Last year I plucked bites of sunshine from among that gloss of green leaves. With good pruning I prepared for a few more tastes of paradise this year, but late March every blossom that dared the gray sky turned to tiny globes of ice like beads of Cloisonné. Redbuds and peach blossoms and Bradford pear flowers and limb and branch and twig turned to glamorous glitter before they fell down. He said I would have no peaches this year. I spaced the tiny green nobs anyway and sticky deformities grew on each blossom end. Yesterday I found one half-bruised fruit and saw another peachy-toned and high-up. I ate the good half, dropped the pit. My crops are usually miniscule anyway, but just a taste or two of something real keeps me out in the sun weeding, turning soil for hours. Soon I will taste ripe figs.
Carol Hamilton has upcoming and recent publications in Atlanta Review, New Laurel Review, Tribeca Poetry Review, Poet Lore, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Red River Review, Willow Review, San Pedro River Review, The Penmen Review, Aurorean, Colere, Presa, Nebo and others. She has published 16 books: children's novels, legends and poetry, most recently, Master of Theater: Peter the Great and Lexicography. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma. Her website is carolhamilton.org.