Cati Porter is founder and editor-in-chief of Poemeleon: A Journal of Poetry and associate editor (poetry) for Babel Fruit. She is the author of two poetry collections, a chapbook of prose poems, small fruit songs (Pudding House Publications, 2008), and Seven Floors Up (Mayapple Press, 2008). Her poems have been anthologized in Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel – Second Floor (No Tell Books), Letters to the World: Poems from the Women's Poetry Listserv (Red Hen Press), and White Ink: Poems on Mothers and Motherhood (Demeter Press/York University, Canada), and appear widely online and in print. Born and raised just outside of Los Angeles, California, Cati Porter currently lives in Riverside with her husband and two young sons.

Links to more of her work:

Poetry: Umbrella /  kaleidowhirl / mamazine / Com[motion]/ Other Voices International
 Review of Diane Lockward's What Feeds Us in Poetry Southeast
Review of Ann Fisher-Wirth's Five Terraces in Poetry Southeast 
Review of Catherine Daly's Locket in Galatea Resurrects
Review of Charles Bennett's Wintergreen in Galatea Resurrects
Review of Alex Grant's Chains & Mirrors in Rattle

Read an article about Cati Porter and Poemeleon in the Riverside Press Enterprise

Read an interview with Cati Porter about her work as a poet & editor on the blog Fruitful

Read a review of small fruit songs in the Chapbook Spotlight on Blogalicious

Other places you can find her on the web: Facebook , MySpace, and her WordPress Blog 
Or visit the journals she edits, Poemeleon: A journal of Poetry and Babel Fruit.
Or e-mail her at Cati_Porter (at) Yahoo (dot) com.

Small Fruit

She knows that the birds have come to call not because they like her but because she is sweet. They have a taste for that sweetness and carry her off where she will reseed the field. The sky has turned itself inside out and she has lost all taste for the vine. She no longer remembers whether she is honey, or flower, or fruit, only that the sound of the wind through her hair makes her weep.

She can feel the inside of the bird, knows its secret harbored there, and doesn’t wince when she falls, and the ground takes her in.

She hears a distant song that reminds of sleep and how it was to dream.

There is a house at the edge of the field that seems familiar, but not at all.


                                                                            ~ from small fruit songs:prose poems by Cati Porter 

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