Matty Bennett’s debut poetry collection, What Are The Men Writing in the Sugar?, was published by Rebel Satori Press last April. His poems have appeared in Juked, Watershed Review, Cardiff Review, and many other journals. He earned his MFA in poetry from Virginia Tech. Currently, he works as a high school ESL English teacher and coach in Providence, RI.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Bennett chats with Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum about his writing; his life as a student and teacher; and much more.
– Matty Bennett… ...continue reading
The music venues that were spared have opened their doors again. I dial the number of a friend to arrange to meet at the hall at the end of the boardwalk. There’s a concert later: four acts, each renowned. It’s important to arrive there early to avoid the crowds, though I might be overthinking the whole thing. As of this date, the death toll has surpassed one million, and most people aren’t that willing to take the risk. It’s safer to catch a stream. A woman picks up, and I leave a message with her. It’s loud, and the connection is poor. She speaks with a foreign accent. People are driving mechanized vehicles on the wood or composite wood. No one has any respect anymore. Nonsense.… ...continue reading
Where did we sleep before time betrayed us and I learned to carry my grief
like a carapace
under
which I sometimes shelter? Years ago, those boys slipped into the tortoise shell
wearing yellow slickers
sleek
with sweat and island rain. Lemon laughter resonated through the space
and likely loops,
lingers
there trapped in a layered, timeless echo. They were our flock
of flightless cormorants,
tea
stained and dolphin dizzy as they traipsed across the rocking decks at night
and boogied bare-
foot
among the blue footed boobies by day. On an icy glacier they spied the Cotopaxi
Andean slinky fox
search
for a meal amongst the snowbound rocks and volcanic black. The intrepid young travelers
leaned into stories
spun… ...continue reading
Juan was determined to get it right, but by the looks of things, he wasn’t doing a very good job of that. He was lying in the bed of a woman who wasn’t his wife, trying to figure out how he’d allowed himself to end up in this position again after promising himself that he would give up this lifestyle. The girl he’d just slept with was in the bathroom cleaning up, and Juan took this as a prime opportunity to escape before he was forced to look at her again, which he didn’t want to do, because instead of seeing her face he’d see his wife and his two daughters staring back at him and making him feel lower than a mongrel. Lower than a rat, even.… ...continue reading
The stars are pretty. I guess. “Sundown” by Gordon Lightfoot is lovely. I suppose. I’m sitting here on top of Dad’s car, looking up at the stars, on the side of a street that passes my old high school on a cold September night. I look up in the skies and wonder if Jair can see me. I wonder if he’s smiling at me, or if he’s concerned that I stole Dad’s car to come out here while having an emotional crisis. Jair Cruz was my brother. Ever since he was eight years old, this cop had come to school to tell us the importance of listening to our parents and not joining gangs. Jair wanted to be a cop. After much training and patience, he graduated from the police academy back in 2016.… ...continue reading
Back then, the seller told me that it’s made
of a buffalo’s horn, (didn’t I know
then that it wasn’t a cool idea?) and would
last a hundred years or more (though I
didn’t get the connection). Its base came off
in five months, and I had to fix it on
a block of wood. The two carved birds, with
intricate details, eyelids and all,
could have elevated it to a pure work of art
but for their perch, a stunted tree branch
that looks like a cross between an uninspiring
schistose structure and concrete. I still like
to look at the birds when I wake up, to
reflect on their gaze upwards, as if they’re
looking eternally at a taller tree branch, or
for some rain that falls slanted in the dry wind
to rekindle a horn that’s not dead yet
in their core, breathing a glow to those eyes
– Jose Varghese
Author’s Note: My poems are inspired by the sensory and emotional experiences of individuals who negotiate the political and ideological spaces they live in.… ...continue reading
