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 Catharine Lucas I move a vase from mantel to table; its cool weight clings to my hands. I practice seeing things in unfamiliar places—or nowhere at all. Is this one you’ll take away? I empty cupboards, six cans of chicken broth. Should probably keep these; might cook myself the…