by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
by Sarah Marquez Dear, you are a fuzzy image on surveillance cameras, in a black skullcap, a hollow-mask. We stand close in clogged checkout aisles, suck hot air. You pay cash, rub a flat silver clip, coins jingle & jangle in your pocket. I want to be them, tucked away….