Poetry
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…”
by Meg Kearney.
“My father’s body has ceased to shock me. / His skin runs over his bones like a slow / river, rippling where belly meets hip.”
by Carolyn Welch Scarbrough.
“William’s letter uses suicided as a verb / and really why not? The finite action // verb—without an introduction, unreduced by / other verbs, other introductory phrases…”