Author: admin

Mangoes by Srinivas Mandavilli

I bring a boxful from another planet, wash them under cold water in a white sink, wipe the skin with care, cut lengthwise with a paring knife, keep peel intact. If my mother were here, she would grab the fleshy pit and devour...

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ON YOUR 93rd BIRTHDAY BY MARY CLURMAN

Climbing on the nearest branch the bittersweet clings, berries open wide, brittle petals fall. Sand may count out days, clouds blow in the wind, shadows disappear. Come now, stay now, let the petals...

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Cassandra by Mary Clurman

Say what you will of me I prophesy a doom that is avoidable if only… Don’t believe me, read the Bible: God let two of every creature man and beast survive the Flood. When Zeus flooded Earth he, too, left one couple— but no...

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Bullet by Cyndi Cresswell Cook

“Can it kill us?” Lauren asked. “Only if it has bullets,” I replied, as my cousin and I stared at a rifle we’d found on the floor of our grandmother’s attic. Outside, heavy rain was pounding against the roof. We could...

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Removal by Shelley Nation-Watson

(Laura Annie West) Social Services invade my home, knock on my wooden door, hurry across the dirt floor. I see the looks they share, the house, unclean, clothes full of grime, children’s faces display exhaustion of another day...

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Post Script Poem by Deborah H. Doolittle

Tends to explain while complaining how insubstantial molehills used to be when mountains should have been enough. Passes over the Shh! and Hush! Forgets the impact of Shut up! Then maunders on and on about love that fades, Fates...

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Post Mortem Poem by Deborah H. Doolittle

Lies in a state of enervation, lies like a cadaver that can tell no lies, like a mummy, like a corpse reposed in savasana. After death can be like that. Words chipped away like fossils, gems held up to the light of day....

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The Sudden Squall by Deborah H. Doolittle

after Pierre Auguste Renoir’s Seascape The first wave whirs around in one long enormous pipe; greens, blues, and pearly whites froth, thick with liquidity. The second wave forms in a ragged rumple. More shift and shove. On the...

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Communique 12 by Sandra Kolankiewicz

Oh, the effort not to tell you, my words snared in deadwood every time I write. I speak surrounded by those who can’t hear for multiple reasons, each with an ear on his own inverted glass held to a wall. I spy mine enemies...

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