by Richard Brostoff

Your single eye
never closes;
nor your mouth

of gray spume.
Twilight, vortex,
your serpentine

tail whips
the sea light
to black shades

in the water.
In the spittle
of your throat,

wolfed down
when they appear,
bent driftwood  

like a toddler’s
severed leg,

a bit of seaweed
like a woman’s

a broken starfish:
someone’s hand
reaching up.


Richard Brostoff is the author of two chapbooks: A Few
Forms of Love
, published by Finishing Line Press in 2012,
Momentum, published by La Vita Poetica in 2007.  His
work has appeared or is forthcoming in
Rattle, Cincinnati
, North American Review, Poetry East, Madison
, Folio, Alabama Literary Review, Texas Review,
Atlanta Review, Gulf Stream, Confrontation, South
Dakota Review
, Cumberland River Review, Wisconsin
, Red Wheelbarrow, The Moth, The Louisville
, Southeast Review, and other journals.  Brostoff
won the grand prize at the AEI International Poetry Festival,
the editor’s choice for the Robert Penn Warren Award, and
was a finalist for the Iowa Review Poetry Contest and the
Gival Book Award.  In addition to writing, he has performed
new dance and contact improvisation in New York City and
throughout New England.   

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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 14, Number 2
(Fall 2019)

Copyright © 2019
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.