Poetry
by Kristin Robertson.
“With the pad of my finger I collect crumb / after crumb like a hopeful, disappearing braille.”
by Peter Schmitt.
“Behind the thick, crosshatched glass of the cruiser / my brother, back for the holiday, breathes / more slowly.”
by Susan Buis.
“They told me that other senses / would rush in. Now the atmosphere / is shredded through trees, each / fragmented scented, audible.”
by Sarah Giragosian.
“To survive this exile, you will need /
to hold court with the moon, store the memory / of its light in a mason jar for later.”
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…”