by Lee Patton “Annalise! Dinner’s getting cold!” her mother’s voice shot upstairs, breaking through the faint, droning hum of the lamp nearby. Unresponsive, Annalise sat motionless, comatose, in front of the easel, her blank stare rivaled only by the canvas languishing in front of her. Her dark green eyes glazed…
by Jasmine Janelle Royer I remember puberty.She was a foe at 11;ripped open the seamsthat held my shameand let it loose;ferocious and starving.Red like wineas it clawed its wayfrom my nethers to belowmy thighs, stained flesh.Followed by the wideningof my hips into canyons,the fullness of my lipsleft a plenty, for my…
by Lucia Cherciu Which good deeds count?What do we list on the professional development form at the gate?When I garden and collect slugs is that cruelty?You don’t have to gloat. I am researching if you can eat bindweedbecause it keeps coming upamong the broccoli.It turns out you can eat it, but…
by Jasmine Janelle Royer I wonder if the Father Cardinal pondered death upon his encumbered flight- laden with sorrow like the gold of a king-back to his mother‘s nest after allhis years of rearing to winged babes;which one could not forget, a heavy plight. If the pain fluctuated like a…
by Joan Mazza On this cold December morning when the firein the woodstove keeps dying, I think of dragonsand their shape, how one could appear at any time with breath that would astound me. I amble downthe stairs to feed the beast another log, to fusswith embers, twigs, and another…
by John Grey As the model posed on an attic divan,the artist’s brush fought tirelesslyagainst the two dimensions of the canvas,to convince the eyethat there were really three. Then he waged war against her surfaces,gave what he saw as her true selfmore attention in the portraitthan the simple bow of…
by Nolo Segundo If you really want to join the Club of the Old,there’s not much you have to do–just stay alive and wait—andone day—it will seem sudden–you’ll stop lying to yourself—andyou’ll accept the mirror’s wordas truth (for what mirror can lie?)and on that saddest day you’ll say(though still only…
by Russell Rowland When a storm comes down from the mountains,coniferous pines and deciduous oaksstiffen their backbones to bear the brunt of it. You can almost sense this,around you, if the forecast hasn’t kept you home. Birds take heed from the trees,and tighten those little talons. They weather outwhat they…
by John Grey This is the first fridge, the first stove,that we took equal responsibility for. And this is the cutting boardwhere I sliced my finger dicing onions..That is the sink.The hot tap still provideslukewarm water.The cold tap is as advertised. And look.There’s the dusty bay windowand the hole through…
by John Grey I walked through my sister’s bedroomto get to my own,sniffed out the dregs of their perfumes. A whiff of imitation Parislit up the depths of my nostrils,and traces of powder tickled my throat. I was twelve years oldand there were no man smells in the house. No…
by Joan Mazza Past tax day, end of April, below freezingthis morning, iced water for the strays,a good day for a fire in the wood stove,started with old newspapers. A headlinefrom 2018 says, Philip Roth is Still Here.No. He isn’t. A day to burn more paper—heat from receipts, bills paid…