Susan Melinda Dunlap | The Piltdown Review

Susan Melinda Dunlap

River Salt

River Salt

The river running through my mouth bypassed my heart, the tongue dried up.


Swilling coffee on the roof of a Motel 6, sleepy, thinking of ham and biscuits and another cup.
The Dead Aren’t Quaint

The Dead Aren’t Quaint

I gathered a bottle of roses and wore a rayon red dress and sat in the oldest cemetery I could find.
For Rachel—

For Rachel—

For Rachel Wetzsteon, a poet who left the week I said good-bye to Manhattan, committing suicide just as I drove off.



  • Donald Trump’s Toe Tag
    a poem by Roger W. Hecht
  • What an embarrassment, what kind of grace
    a poem by Rose Auslander
  • Funeral Practices of the Flooded Valley
    a story by Matthew Talamini
  • What a Wonderful World
    a poem by David Mills
  • Care and Feeding of Your Piano
    a story by William Shunn
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