by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
by Gil Hoy I had a nightmare last night A nightmare deeply rooted in an American nightmare Where churches and schools theaters and city streets were dying Where military weapons were firing into unsuspecting innocent crowds Tentwentythirtyfortyfifty pigeons intheblinkofaneye I awoke in a terrified sweat as bleeding children wailed and cried and screamed…