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Island Souvenirs
A Poem by John Grey Dwarfed by ships in harbor, tiny port town, sun briefs the fronds, the cane, to gild their best, while an old woman oversees a pond, clear to its ends, fish trailing her shadow...
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Elitist Gets Down
A Poem by Frederick Pollack Dear _____, If you insist on your obsolete art and life-style, you have only yourself to blame for your anguish. Decadence in culture as in a polity cannot be lifted, only...
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Crackling Again
by Donal Mahoney This brilliant winter morning finds waves of snow on every lawn and red graffiti dripping from the walls of Temple Mizpah once again as down the street stroll ancient men who every...
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Elitist, Night
A Poem by Frederick Pollack A book, a lamp, a second-rate Merlot: the unbeliever’s solitary sabbath. By day this room looks out upon a wall, by night at night. The airshaft amplifies my unknown...
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The Man Who Lives in the Gym
by Donal Mahoney St. Procopius College Lisle, Illinois after World War II The man who lives in the gym sleeps in a nook up the stairs to the rear. Since Poland he’s slept there, his tools bright in a...
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Night Blooming
A Poem by Zaccaria Fulton The summer after my mother died, we went to Puerto Rico— my father, my brother, my grandmother and I—and inside of a great desert my brother photographed a flower. He was...
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Fist My Mind in Your Hand
A Poem by Mark Anthony Cayanan Minute by minute, the light diminishes the bend in the road. It had a linden, there was proof on the asphalt. And then, I swear, nothing. Now the one lamp outside is an...
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So Fingertips Kiss
by Donal Mahoney Five kids, eight years. And then one day my wife shouts to me on the tractor roaring in the field: “I’ve had enough.” And like a ballerina, she rises on one foot, sole of the other...
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Minor Leaguer
by Britt Melewski He started receiving messages from the car dealerships on what not to wear and who not to talk to too much at the supermarket. The sun melted the drapes. He didn’t gain weight but...
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Manuela and Blake, Blake and Manuela
A Poem by John Timpane Sometimes the little dog searches the house seeking His longtime companion now asleep and goes into mourning Without name or understanding. Sometimes a critic loses His jaw and...
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At the Mouth of a River
by Elizabeth Cantwell After the baptism we all went to eat cake in the basement of a building in a strange part of town. I couldn’t stop thinking about the microbes. Do you know how many microbes are...
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New Yawp, New Yawp
by Donal Mahoney God is everywhere, I know, but Michael Bloomberg, the mayor of New York, is catching up. He’s on TV incessantly, telling folks about his new commandments: Thou Shalt Not Buy Big...
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Woodpeckers and Cable News
by Donal Mahoney Simply because anchors have little to say means they’ll keep saying it till others believe. This is America. They have that right. Woodpeckers drum on maple and oak and redwood trees...
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Monsanto’s Gift to War
by Donal Mahoney Smitty isn’t Schulte. He doesn’t drive a Cadillac and doesn’t hit his wife often any more. Schulte, on the other hand, drives a Cadillac and hits his wife usually on weekends for no...
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Ram
by Mark Wunderlich He stands stamping in the pasture, angry that I’ve come, angry that I didn’t come sooner with my pail of grain. A topnotch of wool shields his eyes, snagged with bits of hay,...
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Oracle for the Violin’s Daughter
by Erica Wright In a basement cold enough to store meat, you assemble boxes. Your fingers go numb, and you fumble each fold, but still make origami from cardboard, imagine giraffes in the...
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[To wake, to know what melts here]
by Kevin Goodan To wake, to know what melts here before us is god, this belief called January, the falling away of who we were— contrails haunt the blue air, a low, fast cloud burnt by sun— who’s to...
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The Twin Natures of Wedding Guests
by Erica Wright The groom gets drunk enough to lose the feeling in his hands and invents a cure for loneliness by accident. Who needs inoculation? The bystanders have never known such promise and...
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[Each day an agency of memory I step into]
by Kevin Goodan Each day an agency of memory I step into, the heave and freeze of February’s land, fresh webs visible in early angles of light, each field the lord I set my plow into, swatch of dark...
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Intimations
by Ben Mazer I Rows of deserted mannequins are capturements of sleep’s desire along the late night avenue where the small wishes soon retire in slanted shadows of the lights that shade into the...
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