Poetry
by Kent Leatham.
“These things happen. There’s nothing /
beautiful about it. She gave up her breasts / two years ago, but the cancer returned, pushing / through the sutures, the larval wasp consuming…”
by Jane Wayne.
“For now it’s guesswork: a territory /
full of unmapped regions, / where paths revert to weeds, and one only advances / by descent – so many steps / from the imagined to the lived.”
by Betsy Unger.
“My husband has been into town. / I can smell the out of doors / in his hair, on his cheek / as he bends to embrace me in bed / where I live now rather than sleep.”
by Jill M. Allen.
“A decade after we burned through the mysteries / and you taught me cartography’s other dark /
arts, I dreamed of you coming for a garden tea…”
by Sofia M. Starnes.
“If I forget you, / will you disappear? / The arc of Rilke’s question seemed to spawn/ out of a dustbin, / remnant of a / sheer belief that minds are gods.”
by Rachel Hadas.
“The asymmetrically lurching gait, / the austere paradox as of one hand clapping: / a unilateral dialogue.”
by Vera Kroms.
“On the island / where we landed, radiation / lit my father up, illuminated / hidden damage…”
by Brandi George.
“She was starving, and I have never eaten dirt, so how can anyone forgive me? In 1933, there is no time; want impregnates blood as ashes are stirred by my grandmother’s hand…”