By Kristal Peace (This poem contains domestic abuse.) My mother holdsMy hand as we navigateThe city’s streets during rush hour,The song of sirens escorting us home.She holds the grocery bagThat yanks her toward dinner. She holdsThe sharp words my fatherFlings at her when she thinksThe day is going well. She…
by Shellie Richards Harold Epstein sat on the edge of the examining table at the podiatrist’s office but he may as well have been sitting on the edge of a canyon. In his mind, he could hear the ominous cry of the predatory hawk as it circled around. His career…
