Aim, by Rebecca Foust
Two Poems, by Karen Paul Holmes
“Put on your winter coat and get a warm blanket,” I told my daughter. “We’re going out to look at Christmas lights.”
You’ve seen them in the deep sleep / of the season: figures sitting in a garden, / light on their faces as you enter.
Whenever someone asks me, “So, what do you do?” I like to say, “I am a crash test dummy tech for the National Highway Traffic Safety folks.”
A dead ringer for Josey. She sneezes as she walks into the pharmacy, and I look up from the newspaper I’m not supposed to be reading.
I never dreamt of you but of your parts: / my flatland home, the mountains my mother loved, / beach where I could look out and see only not-you.
From Hamra to Bliss St, we’ll list the loves we’ve thrown in the sea.
Now that Kate was safely out of the way—silenced permanently in a corner plot with a view of the freeway—the pedigreed vultures swooped in.
The sky shakes us / like a shoe with a stone inside. / Even the smallest stone hurts.
Marylou was breaking it off with the human race once and for all, leaving the whole miserable lot for good, and this time for real.
If I could have a daughter, / it would be my life goal to make sure she never—not in a million years ever— / confused one kind of touch for another.