My Broken Brain, by Angie Ellis
Serving, by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Following is a transcript of a memorial service held for David Foster Wallace on 26 October 2008 at Underwood Park in Normal, Illinois.
by Jane Flett
I lean forward to your ear, touch my lips to the point where the hair curls over your lobe, and I wonder about falling inside. I purse them like a kiss and I whisper road trip.
by Stephen Parrish
Aspiring writer, loving mother, and dear friend Chris Eldin took her life at age 46 after a long and baffling absence from public view.
By Steve Edwards
I see him on a cold blue February night: He steps onto the back porch to drop a garbage sack by the bin and my mother pushes the door shut behind him, turns the lock.
by Andrew McCall
My father does not believe / That the small things accrete, / That the infinitesimals / Lean together to form a whole.
by Con Chapman
There is a charity in Boston that helps the homeless by publishing a newspaper to which they contribute articles and poems.
by Robley Wilson
How old was I then? I was in sixth grade, which meant I was twelve. That was another part of my uncle’s argument: I was “old enough” for the fights.
because / I like her. I like / the signs of wear on her; / the way her breasts have dropped a little with the years; / the weathered evidence of joy around her eyes.
by Karen Paul Holmes
There she goes again, spinning / her wheelchair ’round the nursing home. / Two years, five thousand laps. So far.
by Lisa Cihlar
Does it matter that a migrating tern / is standing in the Fox River / with a goldfish in its beak? / The tern is a Caspian with a lovely black head / like the back-combed Italian mobsters in old movies.