Emily's Tyger | Steve Reames

How much starlight would it take
to make you sore, shepherd, afraid
of the dark or of indifferent cold?

Awakened by the slap
of single-handed night, I shudder
at the prickle of stars still as air.

In the firmament,
winter solstice burns bone zero.
Terror spreads like glory in my skull.


Taken from the 1994 issue of The Wire Harp.

Moon | Lindsay Williams

the moon,
when passing by,
became snarled in the overhanging branches of a tree.
I strove to free it
but, evading me,
it skillfully unspun the trap
and sailed away
beyond my grasp.


Taken from the 2004 issue of The Wire Harp.

Nausea | Bonnie Haines

I was afraid I'd barf up my guts,
and sure enough,
that's just what happened.
It took a long while to get all
the pieces stuffed back in there,
and I wasn't sure where those
loops of intestine belonged,
much less the elusive spleen
we all read about but never see.

So now I'm settling down to sleep,
hoping I did it all right.
Never happened to me before.


Taken from the 1993 issue of The Wire Harp.

Submission Guidelines

1. All submissions must be typed in standard font. Handwritten submissions will not be considered.

2. Your name, address, phone number, and email (please! our preferred method of contact) should appear in the upper left-hand corner of the first page of each submission:
Jane Doe
1234 My Street, Spokane, WA 99200
(509) 123-4567 JaneDoe@email.com

3. No more than 6 literary submissions in total, please (some may be poems, some may be short stories, some may be essays, but no more than 6 total). Poems: typed single-spaced. Stories and essays: typed double-spaced, limit the length of each story or essay to 6 pages. For these prose submission, please write “fiction” or “nonfiction” on the top. Thanks!

4. Submit to Laura Read’s or Connie Wasem’s mailboxes in Bldg 5 (across from the English Dept office) in a secured envelope. Write “Wire Harp Submission” visibly on the envelope.

For further information, contact: laurar@spokanefalls.edu or conniew@spokanefalls.edu

Preferred Submission Deadline: 3 Dec 2009 (end of Fall 09)
Absolute Latest Deadline: 10 Jan 2010 (2nd Monday of Winter ‘11)

Invitation to Bathe | Steve St. George

What began with the perfection
of a liquid moon
And the mystical circular ripples
Caused by the tossing of a coin
Imprinted with the image of a dancing satyr
Has ended in a devious distortion
of the pond

But I have dipped my toes
In the warm sweet waters of madness
And have chosen rather to suffer
The indignity of my uncleanliness
For the preservation of my sanity
And the quiescence of a liquid moon


Taken from the 1988 issue of The Wire Harp.

Triolet | Kathleen Stevens

In order to get grades of A
I spend my time in study.
I never stop to rest or play
In order to get grades of A
Etched on my tombstone it will say
In letters grim and muddy:
In order to get grades of A
I spent my time in study.


Taken from the 1984 issue of The Wire Harp.

American Falls Reservoir | Dolores Lee

My knees scabbed thick
like red-brown worms,
I kneel beside the body
on the rough planks of the dock.
The carp's puckered lips
open and close as if to suck
water from air,
air from water.
Inky pupils spread
into gray clouds.
Dipping my left hand
into the reservoir
I feel the dingy lukewarm water
swirl between my fingers:
And think of Mama's kitchen sink
full of soaking dishes.
I nudge the fish
over the deck with my shoe.
Its body lands silently and sinks
deep into the reservoir.
It floats back up to me--
on its side,
eyes open wide.


Taken from the 2000 issue of The Wire Harp.

His Song | Rachelle Sorger

Broken pieces
of a cold winter
lie jagged
beneathe me.

I ache,
like rust
on a summer gown.

Sometimes he walks.

With me he falls.

He says I broke him
the day
I told him
he couldn't sing.

It's funny how I don't remember anything
except the beauty
in his voice.


Taken from the 1999 issue of The Wire Harp.

Campfire | Crystal Goings

The small light of the fire
Grows brighter
And little by little
Steals a world away from darkness.
Rebellious shadows leap near the light
And try to reclaim
What was theirs.


Taken from the 1986 issue of The Wire Harp.

Accomplice | Tom Versteeg

You're barely down off the red ball
and somebody says here
help me shake open
this valise full of bones.
The handle against you fingers
is so smooth
and so cool, but what you'll stare at
when your eyes close even years hence
is the way each femur glowed
like the nightstick of a cop
from the land of the dead.


Taken from the 2008 issue of The Wire Harp.

Aftermath | Lisa Oman

"There's nothing left."
The words pierce my heart at first,
But then bounce off.
There had to be something!
We drive past flattened houses and rubble.
Even the trees were smashed,
Molded to the ground.
I turn to look at our house.
Grandpa's staircase stands,
as if it hadn't been informed
Of any Hurricane.
It climbed steadily up,
to midair.
He always bragged how damn sturdy
Them ol' stairs were.


Taken from the 1996 issue of The Wire Harp.

The Long Porch | Bonnie Haines

We climbed the railings in our dirty white sneakers,
ate warm, sweet mangoes in the musky shade
beneath the deck.
There were boards we knew,
boards that creaked,
those that shifted and sank
slightly at a step.
We had the territory marked out,
defined by our own set of signposts.

The tops of the trees were as familiar
as the trunks,
personally handled by each of us,
hand and foot.
We knew the wind in those trees,
all the sounds of night and day--
the birdsong in dewy morning light,
rustling and cracking of branches
mingling just above our heads
as we clambered over the railing
into the jungle.



Taken from the 1992 issue of The Wire Harp.

Watching People Sleep
(I like to think she Knew I was there)


Sometimes
when I'm awake at night,
I go to your room and
watch you sleep, my daughter says.
She is eight.
I try to remember--
did I feel her gaze
across the room
in the morning light?
I like to think I knew
she was there.

The last time
I watched my mother sleep,
she floated
in a water-filled mattress,
belly swollen
by the football-sized tumor.
She opened morphine eyes and
I think
looked at me.
Had she felt my gaze
across the room
in the morning light?
She closed her eyes.
She died.
I like to think she knew
I was there.
I was thirty-six.

~By Pat Kondas~

Taken from the 1997 issue of The Wire Harp.

Rose by the Porch | Georgia Tiffany

What is this he asks
me to do?
The last rose
has one startled view of
my face all at once
stiffened by the coming
frost. October
changes the way sun
slips across the stoop,
the rhetoric.
Twin blades of the
garden shears glint
in my hand.


Taken from the 1989 issue of The Wire harp.

Get ready to submit!

The Wire Harp will be accepting submissions soon, so shake the dust off all your rough drafts, finish that art project, grab your camera, and get ready to submit. Come see our table on club day for more information, and keep your eyes open for fliers on campus.