fall 2021
Table of Contents
Return to Home Page
A wrist, a wren, a small knife
Ellen Stone
When I See Lake Water
Kristin LaFollette
Say It Delicious
Berry-Picking
Laura Cesarco Eglin
On the Straightaway to the Rockies
Great Grandpa's Grain Elevator
A Nova Scotian Night Light
Ryan Smith
She's a Pretty Bird
Susan Zimmerman
i decay, bro
erica hiroko isomura
Upon Watching the Rotation of the Earth
Charlotte Vermue Peters
Somewhere within Kostanay, Kazakhstan Justin Timbol
latchkey fragments
Frances Boyle
Making the Most of Our Voices
Ken Victor
Swans at the Golf Club
Ruth Daniell
What We Carry on a Pilgrimage
Granada, Take Three
Elena Johnson
Boy With Orange
Phillip Watts Brown
Late August at the End of the World
Bren Simmers
No One Knows How to Be Good
Emily Kedar
Between Then and Then
Millicent Borges Accardi
The Graveyard Metaphor for Euphoria Kaye Miller
The Graveyard Metaphor for Euphoria
Minding the daffodils,
we walk our bikes through the cemetery.
A bright April day and the year unfolding
cherry petals, midday sun, origami of leaves.
Since your surgery, we’ve been walking a lot—
we take any chance to slow.
A granite angel drapes herself over a stone
chiseled with your former name, but for the first time,
you don’t imagine yourself in that grave.
And I don’t turn you away.
The bike handles cool in my palms,
the sun on your back,
and your shirt lays flat on your chest.
I love how firmly you hug me, now.
We used to stare down the barrel of your past life,
but not anymore.
Because of bright air
and the daffodils,
we roll our bikes down to the beach—
the sea just sparkling, the sky just blue.