by Jason Grant The entire king-sized bed is mine now, but I can’t seem to move from the left side to the right because on the nights you were here—laying there—if I dared move from my side to yours in the middle of the night it was like I-was-crossing-some-boundary you-needed…
by Ann Hosler Water trailed down the window in rivulets, tracing the contours of my ghosted face. You wished me a happy birthday, nestled in sterile sheets of your hospital bed. Freshly woken from the coma of your surgery, you couldn’t remember my name. The surgeon removed a basketball-sized spleen…
By Donnarkevic I recognize the black balloons, the same kind used at the office party for my fiftieth birthday. Now sixty, I expected something more creative: black homburgs, melanistic leopards, caviar. I would have settled for farfalla schwarz (black bowtie pasta). Instead, I got first pick from a six-foot sub, Black…