Heather J. Macpherson

Worcester, MA

Author's Bio

Heather J. Macpherson writes from Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in The Heron Tree, Niche Magazine, The Best American Poetry Blog, text, Rougarou, Pearl, OVS, The Broken Plate, The Worcester Review, CLARE Literary, Spillway, Blueline and other fine publications. Her poem, "Sestina Lot #41994" was nominated for Pushcart Prize by Raduis Lit, and she also was nominated for the 2017 Stanley Kunitz Award (Worcester County Poetry Association). She has work forthcoming in great weather for MEDIA, Concourse, and others. Heather is the executive director at Damfino Press, and is a PhD candidate at the University of Rhode Island.

Publications and Prizes

Ballard Street Poetry Journal, Blueline, Clare Literary Journal, Driftwood Review, Nerve Cowboy, Orange Room Review, OVS Magazine, Pearl Magazine, Third Wednesday, Weave Magazine, Wicked Alice

Personal Favorites

What I'm Reading Now: 
The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr
Readings in Environmental Psychology: Giving Places Meaning by Series ed. David Canter
Favorite Books: 
The World According to Garp by John Irving, The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson
Favorite Authors: 
Stephanie Brown, Maggie Nelson, John Irving.

More Information

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“CashSux & CarryGunz” Vandalized sign on building, Ware, MA February, 2012 Published in The Broken Plate, 2013. Ball State University. I imagine getting shot is near painless as it happens so fast. You probably don’t feel it until you reach with your hand, a slight caress to your injury as fingertips witness the sight of blood, and triggers a pulsating theme. I imagine getting shot up in a frozen yogurt joint, a bright, colorful outlook with free wi-fi and not enough tables to occupy bodies tumbling over laptops and chairs; ears plugged with audio clash: emo dissident interference. I imagine these kids in the yogurt shop don’t like eighties music, but I like synthesized beats. Getting shot up is not popular graffiti. Unwashable the stains because someone will film the shoot out on a mobile device and upload to YouTube before calling for help. Remember pennies? Our advantage at tossing them around like worthlessness? You can’t find pennies in the gutter these days, or under sofa cushions—who has a sofa these days? Do you have a sofa or did the possums move in when the bank took your house? There’s no Highland Street here. Don’t —I imagine getting shot— point that thing at my empty pockets, my broken stitches. I imagine we do this in desperate times, point things at each other to appease hungry bellies missing the day old bread we gave to the birds. We can’t eat here, shot up in a frozen yogurt shop with no pennies for fountains, but we’ll be on YouTube and millions of people will Twitter about us in between pornographic spam. I imagine this is our legacy: quick deaths for slow heartbeats faster than my eyes can flicker shut.
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Last updated: Jun 27, 2017