By Kristal Peace (This poem contains domestic abuse.) My mother holdsMy hand as we navigateThe city’s streets during rush hour,The song of sirens escorting us home.She holds the grocery bagThat yanks her toward dinner. She holdsThe sharp words my fatherFlings at her when she thinksThe day is going well. She…
by Cat Wyatt A howling nor’easter bore down on my small town, winds gusting and blowing so hard that trees were bending over, their branches scrubbing the ground and shredding all the leaves on the abrasive, grooved concrete along the long driveway. The trees lined that driveway like sentinels that…
