Poetry
by Amy Rothschild.
“You toss a pale bagel onto his plate, / do some hand-waving around / the problem of gravity.”
by Patty Crane.
“the fields to silver, mown paths / like rivers of first-ice—every / blade of grass scattering light…”
by Dylan Landis.
“Janet reported that gray taffeta / curtained her walls. It was delicate. When touched, the ashen silk dissolved / around her thumbprint….”
by Eleonora Luongo.
“I kept them all. The poems, I mean. When I / tried to tell your mother, she’d leaned in, said,…”
by E. Hume Covey.
“Two months into her illness, Pat / lay in pain, nearly immobile, / nourished by pills and liquids, / no appetite even for favorite foods…”
by Sarah Nance.
“My mother knows there are three / ways to be clean: to take a mess / that’s there and cover it…”
by Terry Tierney.
“They say the pulses come from a distant galaxy, / an infant cluster in the first moment of birth.”
by Robert Carr.
“The tender of your reflection / inverted in chrome / as a kettle boils…”
by Michael Montlack.
“Once a woman who lost her mother / told me the story of a guru rushing / to satisfy his dying mentor’s last wish.”