Threnody for Paul Morphy

by Brian Glaser

The flowers are everywhere, pungent and bright. / It could be autumn, eighteen-fifty-seven.

Fragments of My Rape

by Janna Vought

It began / with the Stain. / The Stain, my Stain / red on a white bedspread / covered with bristles / of nylon thread.

Precision

by Carol Hamilton

Scarlatti’s sheet music lies / on the floor near the piano / and a catalog for later perusal / is sprawled in full color / near the computer.

Death Poems

by Laura Madeline Wiseman

I don’t know why death wants me or why death wakes me to press her bones against my backside. The ringing is incessant now. She has to know this.

Eyes of the Day

by Tim Craven

I recall as kids when our obsession would / lead us into the thick backwoods / next to the decommissioned railway / line, our pockets stuffed with ribbons

Nightfall

by Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
translated by Jacqueline Michaud

The sun slept this evening in clouds of mounting gray / Tomorrow will bring the storm, and evening, and night

Waves

by William Ogden Haynes

That bowl, whose waves long ago gently caressed / the scent of Sunday dinners, finally washed up / in the swampy cul-de-sac of my kitchen counter.

Lilac

by Alexis Misko

I feel the kind of sticky / I should feel if this were Georgia, / if I were in an Alice Walker novel / with a fist full of blackberries / staining my southern grin.

Orchard Avocation

by William Ford

I’m a laid off mooch / of a prof using up fuel / to cut grass close / around apple trees / where voles eat roots / and breed and breed / deep in the grass, hidden / from fox and hawks.

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