A Tree is an Example

...a tree is an example of the fourth dimension in nature ...

a diagram of the familiar which we are as yet unable to read.

– Ouspensky

A stone is a window opening into itself

extravagant with atoms and dark matter.

A glove by the side of the tracks says:

help forthcoming. Ladder leaning in air?

symbol for lovers as yet undone. Birdsong

a link to a kiss, to a city, a single black sock.

The ocean is a machine for viewing time,

a way of recalling a scorned lover

deep disappointment spreading tidal

under the skin, brow to shoulder, spine

to child, stray glances, smashed windshield.

The fragrance of a lover’s hair

a concordance of shadow, city, and tear

a network of radio, kite string, longing

a diagram of violence as it travels from

battalion to grandson, milkweed seed

to cease fire, motionless in

oceans of air.

A tree is a diagram of possible outcomes, swerves and

evasions, mapping paths we’ll never see,

a way to scry leave-taking maybe, divine

vanishing, laughter, collision,

watch stillness branch into hours, years,

imagine how slowness would taste on our tongues.

Originally from Long Island, Christopher Volpe is an artist, writer, and teacher working and living in New Hampshire. His paintings are represented by galleries regionally and by Georges Berges Gallery in New York City. He writes regularly about art and artists online and off.

Fatherland, Etc.

Fury was the weather

in our house. It blistered

the bread and mottled

the cheese with mold,

but we ate and ate

till my mother and father

rounded on each other

— his salary, her weight,

ringing the changes

of resentment all the way

back to their weekend-pass wedding,

when his mother wore black.

The silverware jumped

when he hammered his

fist on the table.

My father was free

with his hands, when it

came to me: punches,

a kick in the ass

if his son was lazy,

stupid, or a poor

listener. So much

needed to be set right:

a Brillo pad rusting

in a puddle of pink,

talking on the phone

when dinner was on

the table, forgetting

to carry the garbage

to the curb or rake up

the dogshit in the yard.

He fished deep into fall,

wearing his GI poncho,

blacks, bluefish, stripers,

fluke, flounder. I

spaded bones and

viscera into

the roses, sleet

rattling the windows.

I don’t know why

he hit me that time,

something I did

or didn’t do fast enough:

He clocked me so hard

on the side of the head

it made my ears ring

and I sat down

on the floor. My mother

was up in his face:

“Do you want to send him

to the hospital again?”

A light-washed yellow room,

my throat burning

worse than when I ate

chilis on a cousin’s dare.

But that was to have

my tonsils out.

My mother

took me by bus.

I think that’s when

I first wanted to kill

my father, or the first

time I let myself

think it. Something

dark and viscous

filled the sudden spaces

between my kidneys

and liver, between

my heart and lungs,

like oily downwind

smoke from a refinery.

Aaron Fischer’s poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, American Journal of Poetry, Five Points, Hudson Review, and elsewhere. He won the 2020 Prime Number Magazine poetry contest, 2023 Connecticut poetry prize, 2023 Naugatuck River Review poetry prize, and the Maria W. Faust sonnet contest. He was nominated for a 2024 and 2025 Pushcart Prize.

Note from the Editor: Mike Bove, Spring 2026

In my part of the world, February is still deep winter. It's cold out. There’s snow outside my window. Depending on the day, my driveway is coated in either ice or salt dust, and making the quick dash to the mailbox and back still requires a coat. Sometimes a hat too. And yet, here’s the Spring 2026 issue of Hole in the Head Review. We’re calling it the spring issue in the name of coming warmth, in the name of increasing daylight, and in the name of hope.

Speaking of light, we’ve paired this issue’s poems with María DeGuzmán’s luminous crystal photographs from the series Quartz Secrets. The images are bright celebrations of attentive looking, just like the poems we’ve collected here from gifted writers far and wide.

We’re also thrilled to include the winners of the 2025 Charles Simic Poetry Prize:

Winner: Olivia Jacobson

Runners-Up: Mary Buchinger and Tricia Knoll

Finalists: Michelle Alexander, Dylan Bourne, George Burns, Mary Beth Hines, Aaron Fischer, Rose Jenny, Hope Jordan, Daniel Lurie, Matt Miller, Patrick Meeds, Annette Sisson

Christopher Volpe

Of these poems, this year’s judge Bill Schulz says:

First, congratulations to Olivia Jacobson, the winner of the third annual Charles

Simic Poetry Prize and to each of the finalists.

I read and reread each poem many times before selecting Photograph of My Father,

Age Seven. The poem is a quick 19 lines and few words. It's deceptively simple and

powerful– each word, each line moves the poem forward, from the commonplace to

hesitancy, fear and eventually to a cautious, hesitant hope. 

I am especially grateful to Mary Buchinger and Tricia Knoll. Your poems have stayed

with me.

Thank you to the editors for sending along such a strong group of finalists. You

made my task difficult in the best kind of way. Charlie believed in and respected the

importance of each word in a poem. I think he'd admire this year's submissions.

This year’s Editor’s Choice is awarded to Joanna Young’s poem Dark Rooms, a piece that struck me with its clear, thematic use of darkness to bring forth the visible, bad or good, that surrounds us all.

We hope you enjoy our Spring 2026 issue. Here’s to the light.

Mike Bove, Editor