by Michael Cooney We talked of a single bird, so early that only the shape of her face was visible to my fingers.Not one, but several, were calling. The darkness was too brief.The glass of water was untouched beside the bed.Did we sleep at all on solstice night? Later, hours later,…
by Samuel Goldsmith Best stuff wads of cotton isolation into syncopated caverns so the sound of honey can’t drip through and glue together memories. Such sweet mortar to lick a pyramid a monument for mourn. Mummified remains of muses who once clasped voices like hands. Those without ears can’t yearn for songs past. Instead they hear the lullaby of fear the sound…
by Abigail Cain Mother still doesn’t know about the cans of saliva-soaked scabs despite their five-year presence beneath my bed. When I was fifteen, I climbed the oak tree in the backyard. The branches of the tree rested gently on the roof of the old shed where we stored the…