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 Kevin Casey For just a quarter, the old man would tell your fortune… Summers after supper — curfewed, pent — we’d collapse in a graceless pack on that squalid house, lost in its cedars. Cracked lath spilled from the kitchen’s sagging plaster, and the stained wall’s sconce made stacked…
by Kevin Casey The winter stays put in its corner — an ash bucket, unhandled and dented, hungering for embers the summer stole to paint that sunrise while you slept. The sun rose like a a child’s red spade, and dug its way through apricot and amber, saffron and sand,…