by Elizabeth Wischler Thomas Ray hadn’t touched the box since it arrived. It lived under his bed, where dust settled without judgment. He didn’t talk about the war, not in church, not over coffee. Not when his wife asked why he woke up gasping. The medal came three years late….
by Rowan Tate Fog slips its milk through the hinge of morning— that narrow hour when nothing has quite begun. Streetlights still lit, unnecessary, left propped up like hands raised after the question’s been answered. The kitchen kettle hisses its small argument. This hinge of…
by Dan Berick On Friday she will wrench you,unceremoniously, from the pink bedwhere you have spent your life in unobtrusive duty this half century or so. Your world ends with a brisk tug that I’ll only vaguely noticethanks to the doctor’s skill(and benzodiazepine).And then you’re gone forever. Next, the months of slow replacement:scattered…
by Nolo Segundo My wife and I went to say hello to her mother and put flowers on her grave and as it was such a vivid day shining like life’s most poignant dream (youknow, that feeling you only get in late autumn as the last reluctant leaves finally fall and old man winter sends hints of his coming harsh arrival), I suggested we go for a…
by Rowan Tate I Suspect That Moths and Regret share a language no one translates. Grief has poor timing and excellent posture; I am learning to walk without finishing the sentence. I am not who I meant to become, but the bread still rises.
by Jim Tilley We are used to white birches in the forest growing straight and tall, but I passed by one in a yard, bent and twisted, branches curled downward to the ground before rising again, as if it had suffered too many ice storms and never recovered. Beside it, a lush sugar maple grown taller, dominating the…
by Sam Hendrian A Saturday afternoon comprised Of coupon compromises Among stockroom on-the-clockers Who wish people knew how to read hours of operation. Lingerie shops compete To see who can best fetishize denim And which A-list actress turned B-list model Can master that “I don’t care” stare. Public displays of affection By eighth-grade graduates Who will still laugh…
by Mike O’Brien Despite the wild wind, I will clingWhen all that’s around meis losing its grip,being torn from its mooringsand carried awayin madness and mayhemto God alone knows Despite the wild wind, I will cling,When no one can hear meover the bluster,the terrible creakingthe clanking and crackingas what was…
by Sam Hendrian Needed to cut her nails For three weeks now But also needed a new clipper And didn’t want to waste the dough. Sat on the curb outside of Ralph’s Dreaming of the afterlife Not caring if it was heaven or hell Since either way she wouldn’t have to dream anymore. Rebuilt her social…
by Michael Sandler I usually begin with almond milk(from orchards siphoning the Colorado?)then plunk in yoghurt, banana, a few berriespossibly picked by migrants—I’ve seen them stoopedand wish there was a way of thanking themalso for the kale-spinach-Swiss chard mixof nutrients few of us get enough of,helping me vaunt the goodness…
by Chris Dungey After another successful visit to the Presbyterian rummage sale, I have to wonder—who in all the Congregation is built so much like me that their castoff coats fit perfectly, year after year? Will he spot me one day, out of my choir robe, wearing his discarded garment. Hey, I had one like that!…