• Dan Crawley ~ Stray

    The bed sheets stripped off, Mom climbed back on top of the bare mattress.

    Dad told us, “We’ll get it lat­er. Let her rest,” which caused Mom to say, “How can I ever rest again?” She shrieked, “I’m fore­closed,” like a curse word.

    Her sobs –more

  • Toshiya Kamei ~ Skyward

    Flapping wings wake me. With a faint, musty scent, a warm Persian breeze caress­es my face. Am I still alive? Only a faint groan comes from my parched throat. Another pain shoots through me, and I shut my eyes in agony. Drifting between wake­ful­ness –more

  • Karen Schauber ~ On the Outskirts

    On the out­skirts, fol­low the path a ways; the var­ie­gat­ed cracks, ver­dant-grey and heliotrope, twist into a deep fis­sure, the open­ing still ahead. Pace your­self —one tiny step in front of the oth­er —before the pun­gent stink assaults you; you’ll –more

  • Bryan D. Price ~ Crania Americana

    pray to noth­ing or maybe to the
    video where the prime min­is­ter tells the
    world that Franco’s final­ly dead where do
    we go after fas­cism an amer­i­can Golgotha
    awaits I wish I had hung art on these
    walls framed mag­a­zine –more

  • Kathryn Mayer ~ Vestigial Twin

    Peter, the man at the din­er with the growth on his face, final­ly saves up enough to have it removed in October. Opioid painkillers. Face ban­daged. Immobilized at first, a few days – pees in one water bot­tle, drinks from anoth­er, chews on saltines.

    In –more

  • Jim Ross ~ Four Dreams

    Dream 1 – Harvesting Eggs

    I’m work­ing on the egg har­vest.  Our first task is to cre­ate long, near­ly flat bowls of birch (aka: birth) wood for use in gath­er­ing eggs.  The sec­ond is review­ing ancient texts to guide our work.

    We find eggs in two places. The ancient eggs we –more

  • Michelle Ross ~ Mirrors

    The house I was born in had two mir­rors, one in the bath­room and one in the liv­ing room. The mir­ror in the liv­ing room was the length of the wall on which it hung. Etched in black on the mirror’s sur­face were moun­tains and forests of impos­ing pines. –more

  • Under the Cherry Blossom Tree ~ Yukari Kousaka

    Translated by Toshiya Kamei

    A tiny girl dozes by the foot of the bloom­ing cher­ry tree where my moth­er hanged her­self. I pick her up gen­tly. “Sakura, you know about the hua-po?” Mother asked when I was a lit­tle girl. “The ancient Chinese believed –more

  • Raphael Kosek ~ Three Poems

    Harmless Encounters

    I dreamt fat flakes of snow
    falling thick­ly in summer.
    I dreamt I wore a bridal gown
    while clean­ing the house
    as the guests arrived.
    I dreamt I kissed an old friend
    long dead, on the lips
    and felt nothing.

    I turn and turn in this world
    –more

  • Henry Alan Paper ~ Friday

    When I asked him why he had made Aliya – that is, why he had decid­ed to live in Israel for the rest of his life – and why, so unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly, he had decid­ed to do so as an obser­vant Jew – this is what he told me.

    ~

    He was not at all a reli­gious –more

  • Eric Roy ~ Four Poems

    On the Shoulder of September

    First week of September, accused of touch­ing a student
    inap­pro­pri­ate­ly, I was called to the principal’s office
    on my off-peri­od. Knot in my tie too tight, I didn’t dare
    adjust it. He raised one fin­ger, less to indi­cate a start,
    –more

  • Chila Woychik ~ Waterfields

    Riffles in the dis­tance. The sound of won­der breaks along the shore. Rivers that twist and curl. Lakes toss­ing fish toward heav­en, then pulling them back again. Waters coax­ing thirsty wildlife near. The streams and ponds, small­er ver­sions flash­ing –more

  • Tahia Abdel Nasser ~ The Tea Picker

    We swooped down in tea coun­try. The moun­tains were cool­er than Colombo. The tea hills rolled emer­ald-green, lush, and order­ly. Mist rolled through the hills, tall slen­der trees swayed in wel­come. They looked like ani­mals gath­er­ing, bend­ing, crouch­ing –more

  • Kevin Grauke ~ Five Poems

    The Final Quarantine
    It don’t take long to kill things. Not like it does to grow.”
                                          —Homer Bannon, in Hud

    Bulldozers dig a pit wider and
    deep­er than any swim­ming hole
    and four cowhands on horseback
    dri­ve the dis­eased beasts down and
    in until hide rubs against hide,
    with­ers to thurl, flank to dewlap.
    Necks strain above –more

  • Jeff Friedman ~ Five Prose Poems

    Not Everything Was in My Father’s Will

    My father left me a CD with noth­ing in it and a record of all his closed accounts. He left me a hole in which to deposit old birds, the bust of the uncle he hat­ed, old news­pa­per clip­pings of ads for cloth­ing lines he was sell­ing, the tran­sis­tor radio –more