Review by Daphne Astor Ilka Scobie’s new book, Any Island, published by Spuyten Press, is a powerful collection of lyric poems and free verse contemporary elegies that are delivered with wit and courage. Scobie is a lifelong New Yorker, born in Brooklyn in the 1950s. She writes in deceptively plain language about daily life at
Review by Victoria Reynolds In Orange Tulips, Joan Barasovska explores the perilous territory where, as a young woman, she was “neither dead nor safe” (57). We follow her out onto the ledges and lethal precipices of her own mind, then into a locked psychiatric ward, where, as a young woman, she battles a “death sentence
by Genevieve Creedon If you set aside the fact that I never wanted to get married, you might understand my love for cake toppers—not the black tux and white dress kind, but the LEGO minifigures, Monsters Inc. characters, Bert & Ernie varieties: what would you be if you could be anything? First, there was Pluto,
by Kevin LeMaster As the sun rises over the fresh red pavement I wonder how long you stood on that high ledge before you decided to take your first flying lesson and if I could have reached you in time Kevin LeMasterKevin LeMaster’s poems have been found at SheilaNaGig online, Flying Island Literary Review, Triggerfish
by Shan Rao My grandmother was learning to die when I was born. Age 56 they say (maybe) no one can be sure, those records not kept carefully. [Lung cancer; cells spoiling.]. In my first memories, I am sitting on her silent bed stacking stuffed bears against the headboard. I have never known my grandmother’s
by James Croal Jackson Mocktails were the catalyst, but we drank greyhound cocktails to tales of your great- grandfather, the activist who jumped in front of a bus at rush hour– we didn’t rush the first night, long after Oddfellows, when I came home into your arms the first time, the last time this would
by LindaAnn LoSchiavo Before my father stops hugging me, before he dries his frosted eyes, before he commandeers my suitcase, I know our agendas are beating different drums, his expectations clouded with denial. Before I arrange her medications, consign the complex sequences of patches, dosages, and Roxanol refills to a spreadsheet, before I gently peek
by Luis Lopez-Maldonado I sometimes can’t really feel feel, my feet the tingling sensation like the white noise on an 80’s TV, I sometimes find little marble-sized balls beneath my brown skin, I push on them, and they hurt doctor says they aren’t cancerous they’re just fat and if they grow and hurt really hurt
by Jong Yun Won It feels good to be relatable. An F in school, meant marks on our calves later, a swan plate of fruit would just appear. We like bubble tea, not Starbz. Beef Pho, AYCE Sushi, the nubby cartilage of chicken feet. No
by Barbara Lawhorn Rattlesnake Gulch. We switchbacked mid, morning, up the sides of Eldorado Canyon. I was high on sunlight, elevation, lack of sleep. Far from home. Hung over from 16 hours in the car, an excess of joy-confusion, the six drinks with and after dinner. One shoulder kissed by carpet burn. We fucked the