My Broken Brain, by Angie Ellis
I keep a list of songs I know well, so that if I get dementia people can reach the real me hidden inside my broken brain.
Serving, by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months
by Sally Pla
When he came back from that first trip to India, all she could get out of him was that it was “awesome.” He was never a talker. It used to exasperate her when he was little; she’d want to shake him to get words out.
by Deborah Clearman
When lightning strikes the tulip poplar, five hundred years of leaf lifting crashes into splinter wood, and several notables roll over in their graves.
by Cezarija Abartis
Outside the kitchen window, squirrels scattered the seed from the birdfeeder Paula’s dad had set up. The seeds gleamed in the sun like drops of water.
by Brian Fanelli
In our house, nobody ever danced, / even though my father played Elvis / or Johnny Cash from the silver / CD player that rested on the nook
by Kristene Brown
Hot summer and birds pillage garbage cans, / squabbling for scraps. / With ripped jeans and knotted hair, I follow / the unpaved road to town.
by Robert S. King
My socks are small trash bags, / and the street number of my house is zero. / Garbage cans are my walls on winter nights.
by Simon Perchik
These sheep have no choice either / though even in summer / they still want to hear the truth
by David Tucker
No one understands the traffic jams in this city, / how they just spring from the ground like this / and why, when you reach the head of the line, there is / no accident
by Kevin Couture
The men waited on the shore while Susan, (whose son they searched for), made coffee on the tailgate of a half-ton.
by Andrea Witzke Slot
The odor of stale hotdogs coils / around this truck stop of quiet men / who sit with faces bowed, bath kits / in laps, fair-like tickets in hand.