by Matt Dennison I said from the tub as she knelt by the side stirring the water and she said, When I was a girl, before my breasts had grown, I thought one breast produced chocolate milk, the other white, until I found my mother dead, flat dead on the kitchen floor when I was
by Gerald Wagoner Be precise, elegant, describe forces and vectors.Learn the arcane alchemy of memory as catalystto imagination. The physics of the kinetic requireyou announce that windows are ablaze at sunset. Learn the arcane alchemy of memory as catalystto mountain vistas. The sky teaches the listenerto proclaim the windows at sunset ablaze, molten.The brazen glass
by Gerald Yelle None of the sailors ate spinachand not many mutinied.The captain was a liarbut he was no match for Queegand forget Ahab,even if all he did was hold mehostage a minute with hiswhacked-out sidekick, a guywith a funnel on his head.Steam shot out and scared meso I hid under a bushand a squirrel
by Matthew J. Spireng Free Caregiver Support Group: 11:30 a.m. Community Center, 3 Veterans Drive, New Paltz. Join Miss Penny for a fun-filled storytime for the very young. Appropriate for ages 1-3.– Announcement in Daily Freeman, Kingston, NY Remember now, children, when Mommycollapses on the couch—face down or face up,it doesn’t matter which—you need to
by Linda Lerner Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot (first wife of T.S. Eliot)5/28/88—1/22/’47Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald (wife of F Scott Fitzgerald)7/24/1900—1/22/’48 I could have been one of those crazy ladieslike Vivienne or Zelda confined to wifean institution for life, if born in another time my words discovered in a husband’s booksas Zelda did: “Mr. Fitzgerald,” she wrote,“seems to
by Ellen Peckham This Sunday morning given to translations I find myself in tears reading a poem of my own but experienced afresh in Spanish. It recounts elements of your death that having, I thought, at last assimilated I can speak aloud in English. But find, memory resurrected, an effigy newly delivered. The force
by Bruce McRae As you may surmise,we hold our meetings at night,our torment unreasonable,our pallor make-up won’t allay.Witches convening in a moonlit glade.Criminals washing the bloodoff their roughened hands.The happy-go-lucky undead,eschewing brains for a bucket of coffee. We pledge allegiance with a yawn.We sit. We stand. We kneel,beseeching sleepless gods and demons.But never do we
by Michael Steffen Headstones sprout in ragged rows on hills, graves with potted plants and loved ones praying for the bliss of their dearly departed, whom I imagine are bellying up in the hereafter, shotgunning beers, guzzling altar wine, marinating in bottles of Three Penis Liquor under the blue neon of disbelief. I mean, is
by Ian Ganassi Whichever box I open it will be the wrong box. The longer it goes on the deeper the inflammation. You don’t need a microscope to see the devil;Most likely he’ll want to shake you by the hand. But he’s not the only one. As Freud said, “The patients are disgusting!” Off with
by Omobola Osamor I find it under your side of the bed.I wondered what you wrote; I gave up my search long ago.We spar, laugh, and share a bottle of wine in my head.How does the world continue when mine has fallen apart?How do the stars shine when mine has disappeared?How can the ground be