by Paul Hostovsky My thumb is pushing the thin metal thumb-lockof the screen door up and down, up and down,locking it and unlocking it—click, click, click, click—while I gaze out past our tiny poor excusefor a backyard, just big enough for a tetherball pole.My mother is sitting at the kitchen…
by Michael Sandler As I approached he stood haltingly, kyphotic and aged. Perhaps he saw my chest thrust, rodding my back as if to overcome the torque of my own crooking hinge, its rust and abrade. Over appetizers and wine, disquiet ran in background mode while routine smiles and talk…