by James B. Nicola I heard my mother’s voice today. Thanksgiving weekend. Ten years this January. My nephew played a very loving voice mail message from her he has kept on his cell phone ten years. My brother said he has kept three such messages. My nephew said he had another one and wept awhile. It made…
by James Croal Jackson I walk this familiar streetof spring. Cherry blossoms, sunshine, the desireto drink. Yesterday I snuck into a fieldwith a flask to avoid the knife room Itell myself to stay out of. My longing a blackrolled-up rug. I tell myself Stay wound, trying howI can before I…
