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 Lindsay Flanagan There’s a taint on the air, like electricity that’s nearly burned Through the black pavement that my feet are shuffling along Its black fingers have curled around my throat Even while one keeps stroking the back of my neck But I have…
Scotland By Lindsay Flanagan the frosts are falling around my face and it’s grey outside, as within but still you face the bitter cold standing on the concrete porch because we don’t have wooden here anymore but still you bid me, come in the waters turn clear in my hand…