Author: admin

REDWINGS BY KATHARYN HOWD MACHAN

When the blackbirds fly to north women watch from kitchen windows above their good-meal-cluttered sinks and know the sun on glossy feathers tells a story far past soap. They tuck long skirts above smooth boots, pin back their...

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CARPET STRETCHERS BY R. NIKOLAS MACIOCI

This afternoon, two young men carry furniture into the kitchen, so they can pry up living room carpet. They fold to their knees, both men slipping a tack remover beneath the rug. Lumps and wrinkles have buckled broadloom into a...

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ONCE UPON A TIME RETURNED BY RODGER MARTIN

If somewhere in the violet depths of dusk a warbling vireo sings, reassess the blasphemy of this time and know you are not lost, though the race may well be. Settle next the echoes of the wood thrush. Let silence between notes...

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A TASTE OF LIGHTNING BY JOHN MCCLUSKEY

When my cousin, Tommy was nineteen he wore a black leather jacket and sunglasses, his hair combed back with great care and confidence. He drove his girlfriends around in a green, candy-colored Chevy. I liked those things about...

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LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONA BY RODGER MARTIN

(with respect to Gabriel García Márquez) Through the glass, in the cold March breeze, flaps a neighbor’s worn flag. Distance, like these bare branches— white pine against blue sky—marks this corona, this silver ring with dark...

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EN POINTE DANCER BY RODGER MARTIN

After “Tip Toe Dancer” by Karen Marie Garrett A boy—small enough to sit on the box-like windowsill along the edge of wood lacquering the vacant second floor of Kaufman’s Hardware Store— stares across a valley of corn to the...

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OFTEN THE SHEEP BY KATHARYN HOWD MACHAN

stand silent. Roches moutons from earth science class before her teacher got pregnant. Then teachers were demigods powerful with myth. She’s a teacher herself now and in love with a teacher who travels with her. Both know how to...

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New Hope By Kirk Boys

My mother’s Hope chest said its final goodbye from the back of a Nissan Pathfinder stuffed in next to a dirty snow boot and a crumpled, Taco Bell takeout bag. It seemed an unceremonious parting if there is such a thing as...

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LENIN’S METAL HEAD BY TIM SUERMONDT

It lies in a deserted patch of field, in the bowels of Eastern Europe. The face is looking up at the sky, the cold eyes that can never rest. Lenin, who said he didn’t want statues built for him, who said you can’t make an omelet...

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OLD HEART BY TIM SUERMONDT

It grabs its cane and begins the shuffle down the hospital corridor, but still a gentleman it wishes the new heart well, the new heart acting a bit of an ingrate dancing wildly with the staff, oblivious to its elder. The old...

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APRIL AGAIN BY TIM SUERMONDT

The sunlight overwhelms the vestiges of the snow light, yet even with the clarity it’s hard to tell if the man I see is walking the dog or the dog is walking the man, though both of them seem to have affection for each other, no...

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