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 Sally Cragin the things they carried Aquanet hand-maidensalways in pairs,fishnets, Doc MartensMascara’d black staressmoking in tandem,sauntering downstairs Boys give them a glancebut they’re slightly shit-faced(a bottle of Jack in that purse –next to Mace) Oh, those purses – so stylishfrom skinned vinyl leopardsor dragon-skin sacks stitchedout of Auntie’s old…