Poetry
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…”
by Karin Gottshall.
“The river has its own concerns. It loves / the human form the way fury / loves a stone.”
by Missy-Marie Montgomery.
“The deer stepped out in front of my car /
so politely, as if to say is this a good time? / And it happened that it was, / perfectly timed between cars and patches of ice. /
I braked. She stepped gracefully across…”
by Gaetan Sgro.
“The need to catch up on sleep. An ache to sleep on clean sheets. The prospect of waking up dry.”
by Rebecca Ellis.
“The way I remember it is different / from the way I dream it. / The memory, over years, / becomes rounded at the edges.”
by Cory Brown.
“To see how the snow blanketed the trees / along Taughannock Creek Road, I turned off / Route 96 this morning.”