by Laura Madeline Wiseman
I don’t know why death wants me or why death wakes me to press her bones against my backside. The ringing is incessant now. She has to know this.
by Tim Craven
I recall as kids when our obsession would / lead us into the thick backwoods / next to the decommissioned railway / line, our pockets stuffed with ribbons
by Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
translated by Jacqueline Michaud
The sun slept this evening in clouds of mounting gray / Tomorrow will bring the storm, and evening, and night
by William Ogden Haynes
That bowl, whose waves long ago gently caressed / the scent of Sunday dinners, finally washed up / in the swampy cul-de-sac of my kitchen counter.
by Alexis Misko
I feel the kind of sticky / I should feel if this were Georgia, / if I were in an Alice Walker novel / with a fist full of blackberries / staining my southern grin.
by Robert S. King
Follow the script and the scripture. / Even the biography of the damned / is told with sobbing compassion.
by William Ford
I’m a laid off mooch / of a prof using up fuel / to cut grass close / around apple trees / where voles eat roots / and breed and breed / deep in the grass, hidden / from fox and hawks.
by Andrew McCall
My father does not believe / That the small things accrete, / That the infinitesimals / Lean together to form a whole.
by Tony Hoagland
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.