Zandra Mink-Fuller Last Nerve The lady sitting at the counter rubbing her straw up and down against the apparently empty Styrofoam cup, sent my last nerve into the empty space of the diner where Ruby’s young innocent hands once served me hot bitter coffee with a smile and a flounce of her copper colored pony […]
Read MoreAustin Davis White Flowers Some might miss that split second when your eyes drop their blinds and your lips begin to open but for me, as the clouds decide to rest and every car stops for gas, it’s like noticing that first whiff of summer air as it pauses beneath my skin. Austin Davis is […]
Read MoreLissa Perrin Midnight Under the silk nightgown her fingers worry the lump like a rosary bead, counting the hours until dawn. Lissa Perrin is a psychotherapist and occasional writer of poetry from Ann Arbor, MI.
Read MoreLissa Perrin His Retirement Possessed of newfound time and energy to take on the basement, he’s filled with enthusiasm for sorting and tossing and facing me with long neglected boxes packed with my other lives. Lissa Perrin is a psychotherapist and occasional writer of poetry from Ann Arbor, MI.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar Odysseus In one motion he strung the bow the suitors could barely bend, and he shot them down in a cold rage, so why, when he sailed for Troy, did he leave such a weapon behind? One sentence poems almost always make Steve Klepetar smile.
Read MoreSteve Klepetar My Mother Had Five Faces On feast days, she pulled one out for carrying the celebration food, kept another for snarling in the kitchen, and there was one for anger at the shops, one for panic when the subway stalled between stations, and a distant, misty one to rub away her death dreams […]
Read MoreJessica de Koninck Entry from the Handbook of General Regrets When was the last time someone asked what you would like for breakfast or woke you with the scent of scones baking or buttermilk biscuits and read you the headlines, while you were already engrossed reading something else, and poured you a second cup of […]
Read MoreJudith Salcewicz Being Gliding on hard-crusted snow, my feet leave no mark until the sun-warmed surface caresses my sinking shoes and gives testament to my existence. Daily dog walks stimulate Judith Salcewicz ‘s creative muse.
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