Author: admin

AS RECOLLECTING WANES, BY D. R. JAMES

I’m carving out an effigy of Forgetfulness grasping mangled ledgers of memory. Look how it shuffles screens, kinks files: larceny of channeled retention from unmuscled thresholds and honed lingo. Its intrusions inhabit the...

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LAWN BOY BY D. R. JAMES

After Dad’d spur, I was sure to bray: seasonal’d torture, splintered holidays, angered, soured, wound, baked—geothermal’d! Pending over my shoulder, poised, contained, his roused snout. Eruption’s not seeming a sensible...

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VIKTOR ULLMANN BY R. NIKOLAS MACIOCI

I want to write about Viktor Ullmann, but don’t know how without inventing new language. No words in the dictionary are sufficient to describe or portray the unspeakable and monstrous moment when he was twenty-one and...

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GOING BACK BY R. NIKOLAS MACIOCI

I drift into the bar as if lost, and in some ways I am. It’s been four years since I’ve been here. Renovations have made it a less seedy place to down a Jack and Coke. There are now colored globes at intermittent...

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AFTER THE SWIM BY KANDI MAXWELL

Cumulus clouds drifted past a pale sun, a chilly day for swimming, but I couldn’t resist traveling to the lake for a good soaking. I yearned for the solace I’d find there. I invited my nine-year-old granddaughter, Annie, to join...

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PATSY BY JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

My hands held her face as she died, and her name changed becoming as unknowable as the language used to give it life. I remember her brown hair sprinkled with grey. It seemed to sag when she left me. I don’t know how God chose...

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WINTER BENEDICTION BY JOSEPH D. MILOSCH

As my great-grandmother lay dying, the family knowing she wouldn’t last the night, stood around her bed and sang Polish hymns. My father placed me on her chest. At three I was lean and hard. She was soft without hope for...

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TAGS BY PATTY SOMLO

Whenever we come home from shopping, each toting a large, thin-handled bag, my husband immediately removes the shirts and pants he’s bought, snips off the tags, slips the clothes onto hangers, and hangs them in the closet. I, on...

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ALMOST TO THE SEA BY EDWARD GARVEY

This scrubland, a scattering of purple hedge nettle. The path between the lagoon’s flat surface and where cows lull and breed weaves my soul into distant landlocked dunes. Tall grasses (and your hair) wave in an ocean’s breath,...

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