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 John Bibb Hickman Don couldn’t tell you why he was so devoted to Tripp, his 1951 Morgan 3-Wheeler motorcar. He loved the classic design with its oiled English bridle-leather hood strap and those spoked, widely spaced front wheels. Maybe what appealed to him most was the way it cornered…
by Amy Covel It’s always just been meMyselfAnd INever youOr someone else I’ve lived life on my ownOn the edgeAll by myself‘Cause no oneCould ever keep upOr copeWith who I am I’ve started runningAnd I won’t stopUntil I dieBut no one can understandThis is my futureMy five-step plan But youdaredTo challenge…
by Ann Hosler Your mangled face was bared to the crisp January air. Teeth and hair and debris scattered across the snowy road. Thirteen may be unlucky, but those long years together built a sense of trust and familiarity. Loose chunks of pavement secreted beneath snow deceived us as your…