the rotary dial

best new poetry in form

Weeds are not supposed to grow
but by degrees
some achieve a flower, although
no one sees.

From the December Issue


The Last House on the Shore

There’s only one small room
upon its topmost floor,
the last house on the shore
out past the end of town.

From its white turret crown,
her small face peeks some days
to watch a sail or swan,
or ice stilling the Bay.

Mostly, its shades stay drawn
from year to passing year.
And what “folks say ‘round here”
much like the tourists’ stares

only comes so near
her room, since no one dares
to knock on her front door,
or likely even cares.


Mark Mansfield’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Bayou, Blue Mesa Review, The Evansville Review, Fourteen Hills, Iota, The Ledge, Magma, Orbis, Salt Hill, and Unsplendid. He holds an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins. Currently, he lives in upstate New York where he teaches.