by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
By Alec Montalvo I don’t know about the others, but my Grandma once told me how God stares back at us through the starsand when they fall, or runacross the night sky, it means you might have done something wrong. So follow it up with three Hail Marysand get to…
by Alec Montalvo There used to be a mulch mound here. From out my kitchen window, I’d see teens coming into the clearing, emerging from the brushes, carrying snowboards under one arm, brown paper bagged bottles of booze in the opposite hand, smack in the middle of summertime. They’d get…