Claire Hellar Key Years ago you took the way your father hit you and you hid it, and so your hands pray on the keyboard in the dark. Claire Hellar grew up on a tropical island, paints her apartments teal, and has been published in Linebreak, Blue Fifth Review, and elsewhere.
Read MoreClaire Hellar Adagio This is just to say that I recognize that the world is resonant and that with or without suffering warmth can suddenly abandon us. Claire Hellar grew up on a tropical island, paints her apartments teal, and has been published in Linebreak, Blue Fifth Review, and elsewhere.
Read MoreBarbara Perry Enough Who would have thought the layers of clouds and the red, brown and green grasses were enough to carry me home? Mother, sister, wife, grandmother, and spiritual director, Barbara Perry directs children’s operettas,attempts poetry and is working on a novel for kids.
Read MoreMiriam Sagan The sensed presence I felt in the Arctic night wasn’t a god, or a poetic trope of personification but actual figures titans, elementals called north, or cold, or darkness they kept me company on a bus ride across Iceland and now I also expect to be accompanied. Miriam Sagan writes and lives in […]
Read MoreMark Jackley To a Dog from Guatemala Asleep in a Brooklyn Bar Holy Virgin, thank you for appearing as a mutt to flick cigar-brown eyes, slowly wag your tail, affirm without a word there are no borders or strangers here tonight, just a few strays. Lucinda Williams Door to heart kicked open, Christ it’s good […]
Read MoreHowie Good Sunday Portrait Thirty-odd years ago, long before you became this short, chubby guy working bagging groceries at the Stop & Shop, your parents gave you a name you wouldn’t have ever chosen for yourself, and which isn’t really why you’re wearing a Tom Brady #12 white-on-blue NFL jersey. Howie Good wears a Tom […]
Read MoreMichael Lauchlan Porch Radio The light changes and wind fills my neighbor’s flag, shifts north, and eases off as a reed man bends a tune (in The Bluebird fifty years ago) and sucks breath from each aching woman and man still sober enough to hear notes raking over their wounds, burning and healing like the […]
Read MoreRoberto Carcache Flores Seventeen In between the flicker of a match, uncertainty of wisps, smoke, light, blur, your eyes appear. Roberto Carcache Flores is a writer from El Salvador who thrives on sunsets, music, and head scratching.
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