by Daniel Shapiro —Shulamith He used to carry my books every morning on our way to school. He was slender with dark, wavy hair that he combed back with pomade, and he was always neatly dressed. We must have cut quite a couple—him in pullover and long pants, me in my favorite emerald skirt and
by Daniel Shapiro (February 12, 1924) —Esther Will and I got out of the taxi on Forty-Second Street, in front of Aeolian Hall. It was close to three o’clock. I couldn’t help but feel excitement about the coming performance but maybe something else, too. I took in the atmosphere, the late sun, the clang of
by Susan Cornford Josh punched off his phone and swore copiously. The itinerary had been screwed up again! A list of alternatives scrolled through his head till he hit bottom. Then—wait! Wasn’t there that Green Cavern site? It was fairly far off the ordinary route, but, hey, “any port in a storm.” Relief revived his
by Ariel Balter I concentrated upon the girls of the community. I spent the greater part of my time with them. I studied most closely the households in which adolescent girls lived. I spent more time in the games of children than in the councils of their elders. Speaking their language, eating their food, sitting
by Gina Troisi “I think we should separate,” Maggie tells Sam. In the living room, her tank top reveals her muscular arms, her shoulders still golden from their getaway to Key West last month. “I’m sorry,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “It’s the only thing to do. The only answer.” She blinks, pausing in between
by Tamiko Dooley You were sharing a room With the other girls First job, first flight Out of Narita. 6 hats perched on the tables for tomorrow, 6 skirts hanging and 6 Pairs of heels by the bolted door, Next to the mini-fridge. First night away from home. Your stomach rumbled and You remembered my
by Martin Willitts Jr A dream fish flounders in my arms, light glints off its scales like Brahams’ Lullaby. I throw it back into the memory lake, but its weight still lying solidly in my arms is my son at birth. Trees dangle their fall leaves as bait on fishing lines, a mere loon’s cry
by Richard Oyama Invisible Man meets Portnoy, the blurb raves. My property would be a multi-book deal, exclusive cable rights, Translation into 26 languages, Bridget Jones hosting the launch, Airport racks chock-a-block. On Shinkansen and D train, every passenger A-swim in my masterpiece— Brilliant mash-up of Shakespeare & Pryor. I close on A Bel-Air mansion
by Richard Levine and Michael T. Young These poems were written in response to each other, following the jazz impr0vizational style called Trading Fours. Like jazz musicians improvising, keenly tuned to the possible variations in melody and the rhythm of the melody, these poems play off each other’s words, sonics, syntax, images and/or themes. There
by Maria Masington The regal name, so important sounding, that I ordered without reading the ingredients. It’s basically chicken salad. No pomp, no circumstance, just meat, apricots, mayonnaise, served cold. I felt the same letdown on what I was told would be the happiest day of my life. Love, but no joy, just an overwhelming sense of impending responsibility to keep