Poetry
by Amy Haddad.
“The clutch of white peonies I hold by my side are floppy / with dew dripping down my leg. / I am late too.”
by Paula Sergi.
“She’d toss a quilt made from our outgrown skirts / over the faded couch and lie there, / holding the ache, rocking it to sleep…”
by Subhaga Crystal Bacon.
“What can I tell you of this cool morning, / mid-August, the sky clear, sun on the bare / pine floor, a book of poems, dog asleep, / the house quiet…”
by Doug Ramspeck.
“They woke to the primal sway / of grass, cold fire. Here was // a light rain falling from the eyelid / of the sky.”
by Celeste Lipkes.
“The doctor clicks his pen and says it’s just a phase. / My fat moon-face comes second to the x-rays // he pulls from a folder labeled with my room number.”
by Sandra Dolores Gómez Amador.
“I do not think about flesh anymore, but if I did, / I would tell you about its adoration / for cruelty.”
by Adam Possner.
“I hear you just beyond reach / of the flickering light of / the TV, which you’ve kindled / as a kind of controlled burn…”
by Laura Passin.
“Given an infinite universe, / given a finite body, / given the bounding constellations
/ of atoms that trace the flesh…”
by Kwame Dawes.
“And, eventually, we remember only the deepest / gloom, waiting still for the sudden suspense / of illumination — the light, blinding…”