Julie Benesh is author of the chapbook ABOUT TIME published by Cathexis Northwest Press. Her poetry collection INITIAL CONDITIONS is forthcoming in March 2024 from Saddle Road Press. She has been published in Tin House, Another Chicago Magazine, Florida Review, and many other places. She earned an MFA from The Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and received an Illinois Arts Council Grant. She teaches writing craft workshops at the Newberry Library and has day jobs as a professor, department chair, and management consultant. She holds a PhD in human and organizational systems. Read more at juliebenesh.com.
“A Priori,” “Signs of Something,” “Zero-Sum”
The first time I saw St. Peter’s
magnificent marble and lack of time-
pieces, I dismayed my travel
partner with an obvious observation;
a trifling truism: that it reminded me of a casino
welcoming the hopeful riff-raff
magnificent marble and lack of time-
pieces, I dismayed my travel
partner with an obvious observation;
a trifling truism: that it reminded me of a casino
welcoming the hopeful riff-raff
Poetry
Issue 85, July 2024
“So Far”
We’re on our last legs, and the legs are last to go;
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.
Poetry
Issue 81, March 2024
“Plus Ca Change,” “Telling” and “About Last Night”
That swagger-daddy On the Red Line el
asks the auntie if she’s Spanish
she’s Italian he requests a sex act:
poor lady won’t muster insult or outrage
and we roll our eyes on her behalf.
asks the auntie if she’s Spanish
she’s Italian he requests a sex act:
poor lady won’t muster insult or outrage
and we roll our eyes on her behalf.
Poetry
Issue 76, August 2023
“Linn Junction,” “Midwestern Blues,” and “Dear Capitalism”
My father built the cabin by the river
himself, and built me a treehouse
on the riverbank and two kinds of swings:
one with a tire you sit on and one to hang
on upright. We found a wounded duckling
near the pond, and nursed it back to health.
himself, and built me a treehouse
on the riverbank and two kinds of swings:
one with a tire you sit on and one to hang
on upright. We found a wounded duckling
near the pond, and nursed it back to health.
Poetry
Issue 73, May 2023
“wakeup,” “Popular,” and “Landlocked Lament”
with a hodgepodge pile of stuff
to make a bouillabaisse or salad of leaves
build a mansion or lean-to shack
protect from elements and enemies
fashion a tiara or a sassy sash
so as not to scare the children
to make a bouillabaisse or salad of leaves
build a mansion or lean-to shack
protect from elements and enemies
fashion a tiara or a sassy sash
so as not to scare the children
Poetry
Issue 70, February 2023
“Self Portrait as Poet,” “Work Friends,” and “Now Playing”
Poet, you mama’s girl, so bad at volleyball, first dates, job interviews, your
albatross of asymmetry flung floorward like an eloquent glove, ironic as that yellow
pedestrian yield sign on Chestnut Street, permanently pavement-flattened.
Poetry
Issue 67, November 2022
“On the Way to Conception” and “Different Folks”
My parents loved each other but it’s unlikely no one was harmed
on the long, broad path to my conception, and as for fidelity,
my mitochondrial DNA is British all the way to the damsel
du chambre of Queen Philippa, born in Tonbridge Castle,
mother unknown, fathered by Edward’s ambidextrous favorite.
on the long, broad path to my conception, and as for fidelity,
my mitochondrial DNA is British all the way to the damsel
du chambre of Queen Philippa, born in Tonbridge Castle,
mother unknown, fathered by Edward’s ambidextrous favorite.
Poetry
Issue 64, August 2022
“Chicago (After Ginsberg),” “When You Spot Your Flower” and “The Spring-Bringer”
Chicago I fell in love with you at first sight in May 1975.
I wore that green dress and you wore the Lake.
You were the Big Man in the Midwest.
I was 15, you were 138.
I gave you the best years of my life when I thought you had given them to me.
I wore that green dress and you wore the Lake.
You were the Big Man in the Midwest.
I was 15, you were 138.
I gave you the best years of my life when I thought you had given them to me.
Poetry
Issue 60, April 2022
“It’s October,” “Professin’” and “Fitting In”
and, just back from the Farmer’s Market, the last of the year, I’m wearing a summer sweatshirt the amber and aubergine of falling leaves. The cats mill expectantly, for what I know not.
Poetry
Issue 56, December 2021
The Rules of Improv
Lainie emerged from her shock, lying on her side in the driveway surrounded by a black wreath of cleft-chinned superheroes in boots and helmets. She noted the gravel in her hair before wincing at the tenderness of two small broken bones in her left hand, various bruised ribs, and shrapnel-inflicted gash above her ankle.
It was a mistake any mortal could make, exploding her gas grill by forgetting to open the lid before turning on the gas.
It was a mistake any mortal could make, exploding her gas grill by forgetting to open the lid before turning on the gas.
Short Story
Issue 43, November 2020
Julie Benesh
Julie Benesh is author of the chapbook ABOUT TIME published by Cathexis Northwest Press. Her poetry collection INITIAL CONDITIONS is forthcoming in March 2024 from Saddle Road Press. She has been published in Tin House, Another Chicago Magazine, Florida Review, and many other places. She earned an MFA from The Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and received an Illinois Arts Council Grant. She teaches writing craft workshops at the Newberry Library and has day jobs as a professor, department chair, and management consultant. She holds a PhD in human and organizational systems. Read more at juliebenesh.com.
“A Priori,” “Signs of Something,” “Zero-Sum”
The first time I saw St. Peter’s
magnificent marble and lack of time-
pieces, I dismayed my travel
partner with an obvious observation;
a trifling truism: that it reminded me of a casino
welcoming the hopeful riff-raff
magnificent marble and lack of time-
pieces, I dismayed my travel
partner with an obvious observation;
a trifling truism: that it reminded me of a casino
welcoming the hopeful riff-raff
Poetry
Issue 85, July 2024
“So Far”
We’re on our last legs, and the legs are last to go;
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.
the best metaphors die young, reborn as cliches.
Poetry
Issue 81, March 2024
“Plus Ca Change,” “Telling” and “About Last Night”
That swagger-daddy On the Red Line el
asks the auntie if she’s Spanish
she’s Italian he requests a sex act:
poor lady won’t muster insult or outrage
and we roll our eyes on her behalf.
asks the auntie if she’s Spanish
she’s Italian he requests a sex act:
poor lady won’t muster insult or outrage
and we roll our eyes on her behalf.
Poetry
Issue 76, August 2023
“Linn Junction,” “Midwestern Blues,” and “Dear Capitalism”
My father built the cabin by the river
himself, and built me a treehouse
on the riverbank and two kinds of swings:
one with a tire you sit on and one to hang
on upright. We found a wounded duckling
near the pond, and nursed it back to health.
himself, and built me a treehouse
on the riverbank and two kinds of swings:
one with a tire you sit on and one to hang
on upright. We found a wounded duckling
near the pond, and nursed it back to health.
Poetry
Issue 73, May 2023
“wakeup,” “Popular,” and “Landlocked Lament”
with a hodgepodge pile of stuff
to make a bouillabaisse or salad of leaves
build a mansion or lean-to shack
protect from elements and enemies
fashion a tiara or a sassy sash
so as not to scare the children
to make a bouillabaisse or salad of leaves
build a mansion or lean-to shack
protect from elements and enemies
fashion a tiara or a sassy sash
so as not to scare the children
Poetry
Issue 70, February 2023
“Self Portrait as Poet,” “Work Friends,” and “Now Playing”
Poet, you mama’s girl, so bad at volleyball, first dates, job interviews, your
albatross of asymmetry flung floorward like an eloquent glove, ironic as that yellow
pedestrian yield sign on Chestnut Street, permanently pavement-flattened.
Poetry
Issue 67, November 2022
“On the Way to Conception” and “Different Folks”
My parents loved each other but it’s unlikely no one was harmed
on the long, broad path to my conception, and as for fidelity,
my mitochondrial DNA is British all the way to the damsel
du chambre of Queen Philippa, born in Tonbridge Castle,
mother unknown, fathered by Edward’s ambidextrous favorite.
on the long, broad path to my conception, and as for fidelity,
my mitochondrial DNA is British all the way to the damsel
du chambre of Queen Philippa, born in Tonbridge Castle,
mother unknown, fathered by Edward’s ambidextrous favorite.
Poetry
Issue 64, August 2022
“Chicago (After Ginsberg),” “When You Spot Your Flower” and “The Spring-Bringer”
Chicago I fell in love with you at first sight in May 1975.
I wore that green dress and you wore the Lake.
You were the Big Man in the Midwest.
I was 15, you were 138.
I gave you the best years of my life when I thought you had given them to me.
I wore that green dress and you wore the Lake.
You were the Big Man in the Midwest.
I was 15, you were 138.
I gave you the best years of my life when I thought you had given them to me.
Poetry
Issue 60, April 2022
“It’s October,” “Professin’” and “Fitting In”
and, just back from the Farmer’s Market, the last of the year, I’m wearing a summer sweatshirt the amber and aubergine of falling leaves. The cats mill expectantly, for what I know not.
Poetry
Issue 56, December 2021
The Rules of Improv
Lainie emerged from her shock, lying on her side in the driveway surrounded by a black wreath of cleft-chinned superheroes in boots and helmets. She noted the gravel in her hair before wincing at the tenderness of two small broken bones in her left hand, various bruised ribs, and shrapnel-inflicted gash above her ankle.
It was a mistake any mortal could make, exploding her gas grill by forgetting to open the lid before turning on the gas.
It was a mistake any mortal could make, exploding her gas grill by forgetting to open the lid before turning on the gas.
Short Story
Issue 43, November 2020