Rebecca O’Bern Mother for Emily Dickinson, who lost her mother to a stroke, and who meticulously catalogued her garden in a notebook for 46 years They say tending an herbarium is the toughest work a daughter will ever do, that its pages of green vibrant plants can turn black and curl in the corners at […]
Read MoreTodd Mercer Ephemeral & Transitory We have until they go out into the world, after which we wonder if we really had them at all, the way the clock and the calendar flap in the wind on the last standing wall of heartbreak. Todd Mercer was born ready, then was not at all ready, next […]
Read MoreZoe Dickinson Haunt Round stones, and stones becoming round, leave ghosts of salt on my knees. Zoe Dickinson is a beach sitter and book seller in Victoria, B.C.
Read MoreLiliya Gazizova Закат На окна повесили Красную сетку. Теперь всегда закат. Sunset A red flyscreen Was put on the window And now we always have sunset. Liliya Gazizova is a Russian poet of Tatar origin, a member of the International Pen Club (Pen-Moscow), author of fifteen volumes of poetry, published in Russia, Europe and USA, […]
Read MoreIan Willey Progress I tell him there were stickleback in this stream but the water got dirty from all the detergent and the chemicals people put on their lawns so now they are gone and this makes him sad but I don’t tell him there is such a thing as progress, that there were once […]
Read MoreJon Densford Groundstroke In the end, you will want more than the fuzz-free yellow skin of that old tennis ball X-cut and jammed onto the bottom of one rear leg of a cold aluminum walker, scuffling through one last service. Jon Densford lives in Memphis TN but goes to Arkansas to fish at least once […]
Read MoreMarc Vincenz Gray Hair My face wraps itself in the wind, my ears see the light. Marc Vincenz is a poet, fiction writer, translator, editor, publisher, designer, multi-genre artist and musician; he has published fourteen books of poetry, including more recently, The Syndicate of Water & Light, and Here Comes the Nightdust.
Read MoreDebbie Collins The Herd in December The black cows on the snowy edge of the white field look like graffiti on the side of the train or sharps and flats on a sheet of music, their breath coming in clouds and their bellowing wish for the morning oats and hay as yet unfulfilled. Debbie Collins […]
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