by Lisa M. Gott Heavy clouds creep acrossforgotten lands — a storm is coming,blowing the tumble weedsof my own destructionacross the never-ending fieldsof a place once called home. Parched, the soil cries out,O, clouds, rain down on me,wash away this decay so that blades of glory may rise up and reachtoward possibility. Blackness circles — a…
by Maggie Swofford We watchedthe flowersfold underthe summersun—105°windchill—we lookedout my bed-room window. I baked andcaked mymakeup on bythe windowsillonly to haveit drip off. The flowervase toreoff itsstandduring aviolentstorm,and wethrew ourlaundryat eachother asnights grewdim andhot. The nextday, everyday, we’dcross ourlegs andfoldthe wrinkledfabric backinto somethingwe couldwear.