Dawn Potter

Maine

heres what its like

you wait all day for ringo & eric to show up with their beater truck to

plow you out so you can go get that pregnancy stick for the baby you

hope is swelling only in your fears but

the snow is snowing like theres a snow factory grinding out

a million pounds of snow an hour & under the drifts the

car looks like two hippos asleep in a white

tent & jeff the guy who may or may not have knocked you up

is clanking around in the woodshed supposedly getting more wood

for the stove but probably getting stoned

& on the radio the tinny voice of weatherman jack advises

hold your horses folks this is shaping up to be a big one & every

time snow slides off the metal roof the old dog

wakes up with a snort & starts barking & the baby you may or may

not be growing gives a lurch that is definitely not real but could also

be an omen & all around the cabin the fir

trees the white pines the tamaracks loom like messages from god

you should of learned something by now say the god trees we gave

you every chance & the snow keeps snowing

& you hear a fat squirrel chewing up fiberglass inside a wall &

your heart skips in your chest just a little skip like the way

a baby lets out a tiny cry while its still asleep

the way a baby might cry if it was real if you was its mother tucking

it into a basket tucking in the blanket all around slinging

the basket over your arm then the two of you

taking your chance

Dawn Potter is the author or editor of ten books of prose and poetry—most recently the poetry collection Calendar. A finalist for the National Poetry Series, she has also won a Maine Literary Award for nonfiction and has received grants and fellowships from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Writer's Center, and the Maine Arts Commission. Her poems and essays have appeared in the Beloit Poetry Journal, the Sewanee Review, the Threepenny Review, the Times Literary Supplement, and many other journals. After teaching at the Frost Place for more than a decade, she now leads poetry programs at Monson Arts. She lives in Portland, Maine. Facebook. Instagram. Bluesky.

Note from the Editor: Mike Bove

Let us give thanks to Bill Schulz.

I met Bill some years ago, where else, but at a poetry reading. By then Hole in the Head Review had already been going strong for a few years, and I was surprised our paths hadn’t crossed earlier. I liked him immediately, then read his poetry and saw his paintings, and liked him even more.

That Bill thought to ask if I’d join Hole in the Head’s editorial team in 2023 was a great compliment, and I’ve enjoyed working on the journal with him at the wheel. I’ve seen up close his dedication to the arts community, not just in Maine where we’re based, but across the country and around the world.

When he decided to step down as Editor last year, I told him I was interested in stepping up. So here we are. This issue will be our sole offering for 2025, but we’re just getting (re)started. One notable change is that we’ve moved to a biannual format, with a Spring Issue in mid-February and a Fall Issue in mid-August. We’re also pleased that we’re now able to offer payment to contributors.

If you’re a longtime reader, a few things may look and feel different. But rest assured the new Editorial Staff is committed to continuing Bill’s vision of publishing the strongest work from new and established voices. And don’t worry, he’s not far away.

I hope you find something joyful and worthwhile in this new issue. I think you will. I hope you enjoy Bill Schulz’s striking cover art and fine poems by Betsy Sholl, Dawn Potter, Carol Bachofner, and all our gifted contributors. As you read, I hope you’ll remember what can happen in the silent space a poem makes; there, we grow.

So, thank you to Bill Schulz. Thank you to the previous Editorial team and the current one. Thanks to our donors and contributors. Thanks to you, our readers.

Here is Hole in the Head Review.

Mike Bove, Editor

Carol Willette Bachofner

Half-Haunted

Old Pima came down with the wandering sickness. It edged in when he was digging for water out back. Took over, settled into his heart for four years. There is no warning. It stayed until Grandson came home from college. Ira Hayes got it at Iwo Jima, raising a flag that didn’t recognize him. That’s how it gets in sometimes. Comes and goes. Old Pima put a walking stick by the entrance to his house. In case it comes back. He wears a dream catcher on his shirt now. He heard from an elder that the sickness comes from crazy dreams getting in through the chest. He hasn’t slept in his bed since Old Woman walked away. Grandson builds a fence to keep it out. Granddaughter cooks outside to make it think there’s no house at all. Old Pima smudges. Heya, heya, heya-hey. Linda Little Dog stopped singing and wandered off after breakfast. She might be gone an hour. A week. She might be under the road. Old Pima notices his walking stick wandered off at about the same time.

Carol Willette Bachofner served as Poet Laureate of Rockland, Maine from 2012 to 2016. Carol is the author of seven books of poetry, including Test Pattern, a fantod of prose poems (Finishing Line Press, 2018). Every Place I look, Women With Embers at Their Feet is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. Bachofner’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, most recently, The Mackinaw: a journal of prose poetry, and the following anthologies: Dawnland Voices, An Anthology of Writings from Indigenous New England (University of Nebraska Press, 2013), Enough! (Littoral Books, 2020), and Wait (Littoral Books, 2021).