by Lisa M. Gott Heavy clouds creep acrossforgotten lands — a storm is coming,blowing the tumble weedsof my own destructionacross the never-ending fieldsof a place once called home. Parched, the soil cries out,O, clouds, rain down on me,wash away this decay so that blades of glory may rise up and reachtoward possibility. Blackness circles — a…
by Lisa Harris Zero holds a place of absence, a mid-point between plus one and minus one. Look closely at a pie, a cake, a world—things we cut up. Once made, they cannot be enlarged, but they can be shared in different parts, in different pieces, in different chunks. Time,…
by Jason Spicer A man was shot, in the alley behind my grungy apartment last night, again. His bald pate bounced a stream of pleated light through the blinds on my second story window. No sirens or news crews, just muddy boots and forlorn faces—men who needed sleep, in uniforms…