Poetry
by Nylah Lyman.
“For months, her determined hands
/ coaxed the sickness up and out of my lungs / until it came to rest, eventually, in her own—”
by Rachel Hadas.
“I’m angrily packing to fly to my dying brother. / My husband stands and watches. As a tree / might look at someone, he looks down at me.”
by Michael M. Weinstein.
“I wanted you, desert / you red incorruptible // parchedness perched on / the earth’s bone shoulder…”
by Jacqueline Jones LaMon.
“It is four in the darkness and you cannot breathe. / You cannot will your chest to expand, and suddenly, / this is all right.”
by Muriel Nelson.
“We lean close to admire the web / then blow on it // gently.”
by Kan Ren Jie.
“He has started praying – / my mother says, clenching in her hands / a blurry set of pixels.”
by Terry M. Dugan.
“I could tell from his voice / something was horribly wrong. / I’m okay he said over and over / in a tone that told me he was anything but.”
by Cortney Davis.
“A trickster, the ear. Making us believe /
what eyes deny or hearts might doubt,”
by Jean LeBlanc.
“into the folds of the purple iris which, at dawn, / becomes the hub for spider silk, filament after / filament…”