Remains, by Maureen Simons
They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot. Two little girls, hand in hand, walked soundlessly up Nora’s driveway.
The Figure, by Joseph Fasano
You sit at a window and listen to your father / crossing the dark grasses of the fields
by Andrew Hemmert
If the places you go become you, / you must account for the drive-through / liquor store housed in the old carwash.
by Lynn Mundell
The Iranian blue-glazed pottery sat on our parents’ shelves for years.
by Katie Manning
“And you know what the raven says.”
by Jordana Jacobs
Inside the ovaries of my husband’s grandmother, Sylvie, resided an egg the size of a grain of sand that would have been Hannah, my brilliant and accomplished mother-in-law.
by Katharyn Howd Machan
about his sadness. / About how the moon hung full / that morning, every morning
by Valentina Gnup
At sixty-one, I count and recount my remaining summers.
by Jeff Somers
When she signed the lease and moved her stuff into the place, she knew she was leaning into a decline she’d begun some time before.
by Douglas W. Milliken
Mum died in the last days of October, leaving—among other things—a lot of fall-time chores incomplete.
by Benjamin Cutler
After the final harvest, the forecast / called for freezing temperatures / and the end of this winsome world.
by Lauren Lynn Matheny
Whatever the color, there had been a balloon. There had been a boy. And there had been a fall.