Poetry
Sadness calls for inadequate outerwear. / Exhilaration for ultra violet. / All feelings are unhealthy.
by Tim Suermondt.
“I lie back a little dreamlike, / let Mary Immaculate take the blood she needs. / The sun has found its way inside, / enveloping all of us in its light—”
by Joan I. Siegel.
“He does not wait for the sun’s return.
Instead he makes a pillow of darkness
to stretch inside this longest night…”
by Paula Bohince.
“My sister drove, / so long that what began before daybreak / ended in the same pitch, / and we barely noticed those in-between hours, // though this morning we laughed…”
by Jayne Marek.
“Old cat, my little love, as you withdraw / along with the declining days in October / and fold yourself into slanting light, / you seem quiet and neat as rolled-up socks….”
by Laura E. Garrard.
“I am finally kind to my broken body / when she pops her hip, limps her leg. // I do not shout down my spine / but coo and coax like a loving mother…”
by Alexandra Ozols.
“…so I worry and know that everything / is not fine which sends my heart galloping / like a horse turned wild by gunshots”
by Sandra Dolores Gómez Amador.
“I do not think about flesh anymore, but if I did, / I would tell you about its adoration / for cruelty.”
Having left work early this spring / afternoon, I feel no rush / to be anywhere but here and now, / even waiting at this reluctant light,