Poetry
by Birch Rosen.
“You do not have to stagger around the house, / unaided and weak, / as the meds wear off or kick in.”
by Cynthia Parker-Ohene.
“The macabre moon / Once lunged at me / It hisses red / Hangs voyeuristically / Wants me to stand in its balkanized light.”
by Caroline Harper New.
“Love, / from Germanic lufu, is intestinal and milky / like undug onions squeezed from mothers.”
by Sandra Giedeman.
“We watch the gardener arc the hose / carelessly washing away the work / of mud sparrows, hornets and wasps.”
by Ceilidh Barlow Cash.
“It feels like holding a bird in one hand / and a bowling ball in the other.”
by Sonia Sarkar.
“Nine months into my life, I am asked to eat on command / These tiny bursts of cylindrical snow that will reappear / Again and again…”
by Lauren K. Alleyne.
“It’s been proven, they say— / the bills like a line of ants, / the glamour of the new year / grown dull like a tin ring…”
by Rochelle Robinson-Dukes.
“April is my favorite month. / Its stormy flowers / and puddled rainbows are captivating / as is the lightning / that breaks cool spring nights / like a child’s scribble.”
Steve Cushman.
“We shared cigarettes and jokes / talked about anything except / what we’d seen, the baby we’d X-rayed, / his bruises…”