february 2019

Cynthia Quevedo

Cynthia Quevedo is a Southern California native who now resides in the wilds of Vermont. She spent 16 years homeschooling her children, and thinks she learned more than they did along the way. She’s been married 29 years to the same great guy who keeps her laughing and brings her food. She is currently completing her Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing and English, with a Concentration in Poetry, at Southern New Hampshire University. She’s thrilled to have her poems published in A Poet is a Poet No Matter How Tall; A Poet is a Poet No Matter How Tall, Episode II: Attack of the Poems; Lummox, Number Four 2015; Fire in the Treetops: Celebrating Twenty-Five Years of Haiku North America; Short Poems Aint’ Got Nobody to Love; and, Snorted The Moon & Doused the Sun: An Anthology of Addition Poetry

DRACULA HAS RISEN

1969

I don’t remember the movie.

I remember the nightmares, the terror.

I remember the years of clutching the blankets

to my neck as I fell asleep each night--

even in the heat of summer,

full blanket and sheet

in a death grip at my neck--

to protect myself

from being drained

of my life’s blood.

I didn’t want to be undead,

only able to exist

at night

in the shadows of the dark.

At eight-years-old,

I knew this.

EMPTY NEST

Once hidden from view

behind lush spring and summer leaves,

now exposed,

resting at the apex of the tree branches.

Sticks and leaves protrude

randomly.

Avian engineers constructed this home

against strong winds and rain.

Soon Spring will fill them with a new brood.