Author: admin

PAGLIACCI BY DIANA PINCKNEY

Crying clown, why have I always loved you? Because you also laugh, because I played puppets as a child and a clown was my favorite. And the Punch and Judy shows, the sock and rock, the way they never parted, playing...

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MOTHER DYING BY DIANA PINCKNEY

My 39-year-old self had no idea what my 70-year-old mother’s body was screaming when she opened her eyes in the ICU and said, I’m in agony. Multiple arteries rerouted to her drowning heart, pain meds reduced to keep that muscle...

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FICUS TREE BY DIANA PINCKNEY

Not a tree really. Moved out to a deck every spring, back in when fall bites and dark drops. Mother once said, The low forties shocks the roots. Wouldn’t want your roots shocked, would you? As I moved my jolted roots, from a...

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ODE TO MY PANDEMIC AMARYLLIS I coddle the ochre-umber knob of you into the old goldfish bowl I’ve stoked with compost, set you on the sill above the sink, so as I scrape plates and suds tumblers, I can overlook the fear that’s...

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AFTER ARGUMENT BY GREY HELD

Today abates its pace, places its attention on my need for her embrace, though given that chagrin still occupies my chair, I’ve scant chance to reignite our love affair, make my stance less doctrinaire. I want abandon and I...

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HARD TO BELIEVE BY GREY HELD

Spring unfolds—a dystopian novel. A give-back for denying the environment. Kids stay home, squabble, zip-locked into stifling compliance. Ubiquitous—the disinfectant spritz of income insecurity. And the curve of...

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CRANBERRY SONNET BY WALLY SWIST

I have raved about your cranberry bread before; however, this season it is nothing less than an ingot of the divine taste of heaven. It is like no other cranberry bread I have eaten and savored: delirious with the wildness of...

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LOBSTER BY WALLY SWIST

The view of the Oxbow in the Connecticut River, from Mount Sugarloaf, is captivating, and the crack of lobster shells answer one another, as we draw out the sweetness of the red and white meat from their exoskeletons, as our...

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ODE TO RUSSIAN KALE BY WALLY SWIST

I bought a bunch of Russian kale at the farmer’s market. I noticed it as I would a friend who had gone unseen for years— almost missing it in passing, but having just the sight of it stop me in my steps— and in one fluid motion,...

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IF YOU LET ME GO BY DEBRA M. FOX

What at first glance was a somber photo of two beings clutching one another had now become a devastating portrayal of their final embrace. Leafing through old National Geographic magazines, deciding which would interest my...

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