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 Benjamin Jackson Sweat-scented sheets which once wrapped legs and limbs, limbered by love and lust and expansive, demonstrative selves now sit clean and sterile, cast aside on a lonely shelf like trophies commemorating a sport no longer played. You folded them crisply with your distant hands, just before you…