by Gerard Sarnat In Chicago before I was toddling and my parents weren’t poor any more, when Zeyde died, we lived with Bubbe up three flights of stairs. She was always there, staring off in the distance, or on the floor feeding maches herring to fatten me up, or spoiling her boychick on dill pickles


by Katherine M. Gotthardt I wrote this poem because I saw defenestration in a WWII detective novel and had to look it up. That’s after thinking “I’d love to toss him out the window,” then remembered the old joke about tossing a watch to see time fly. It’s no one liner, but timing – o