There, I Said It, by Tori Malcangio
In the dark, from my twin bed, I listen to Romy and her latest visitor in the sheets.
Lunchtime at the Café Buade, Quebec City, by Barbara P. Greenbaum
There is a woman in the booth next to us. / She looks at me as I remove my new hat.
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.
by Partridge Boswell
Blind to what tickles the delta of nerves there / you rub a humming with the back of your hand
by Simon Perchik
These gravestones left stranded / warped from sunrises and drift / —they need paint, tides, a hull
by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months