Fiddlehead is publishing a poem, "The Sparrow Child." Oddly, it's my least favourite of the batch I sent them, though not a bad poem. This happens quite often, and is a mystery of publishing.
This frees up "Resurrection" and "Revelation," so I popped them into the mail with the newer weird religious stuff ("Night Litany," "How Even the Holy" and "Chalcedony, Chrysoprase, Lapis, Onyx.") Another mystery of publishing: what is it about putting six poems in an envelope that takes two hours?
Ooh, congrats on the acceptance! You're on a roll! Woo hoo! And yes . . . I agree, wholeheartedly . . . it's awfully strange when poems you distinctly feel are not necessarily the cream of your crop (or even, in my case, ones I refer to as my "problem children") get snatched up, while poems you are convinced are your strongest simply languish.
And "problem child" certainly describes "Sparrow." I like parts of it. Lots. I like the idea of it, lots. Unfortunately when you try to pick it up it comes apart like an overcooked supreme shrimp dumpling. But I included it to round out the submission, and low and behold, it's the one they want.