Kissing Boys
By Jim Richards
When was the last time I kissed him,
my eldest son, on the mouth?
I can’t remember. When did I start
turning away and offering cheek
instead of lips? Somewhere between
our last kiss and today’s awkwardness
we forgot the words to an old song.
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The Summer of Manmade Miracles
By Karen J. Weyant
I dumped grapejuice into Gallagher Run,
hoping the muddy swirls would turn into wine,
and pretended the stale Angel Food cake
old Mrs. Rogers threw to the birds was really
manna from heaven. Evenings, I decided…
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Curb Appeal
By James Reidel
The burnt orange of a dying coral reef,
The pockmarked brick,
The paint peels,
Which blister in great petals and dogears,
Which unfold on closer inspection to reveal an older layer of
color,
That someone else got it right—
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Limitations
By Darren Morris
My mother, who is dead,
has come to ask me questions
about how I am living my own life.
We talk about other things.
She lights another cigarette,
which pours out of her like milk.
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Hotel Room
by Diana Whitney
The anonymous urge
wells up unbidden: the crisp bed
like a blank canvas
expansive with potential,
lily sheets stretched taut
over the bare frame…
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Chronos in the Kitchen
by Sandra Kolankiewicz
At some point the cats—who routinely prowl
the windowsills and countertops to stare
out the back window and make little sounds
about the birds—must have stepped on the clock
radio in the corner, setting the
time so the station comes to life at 5…
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Turning Forty
by Bibhu Padhi
I imagine a blue deeper than the sky,
despairing the Bay of Bengal’s
depth and nightly activity.
A child’s slim voice rises through
the sea’s midnight slush, echoing from
the distance of the years, and then is lost.
What distance of time comes in between…
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From Tectonics
by Josh Booton
to chart each chasm volley the soft rock
down how down somewhere inside
besides which side
are you on
the rocks colliding
a slow commotion as they fall & all
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Before the Funeral
by Deirdre Lockwood
The orange juice is grey. My father keeps
calling me Mary. (His youngest sister’s name.)
Every five minutes the newsprint swirls
beneath his eyes. We look away, out
the kitchen windows to the aftertaste
of snow along the sidewalk. Gravel, rock
salt, and the rust-edged grass between the cracks…
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Waffle House, West Fillmore, April 2006
by Brock Jones
He says it’s his turn to pay
so I wait by the door
on the far side of a mid-morning
crowd of diners waiting for seats.
Music trickles from ceiling speakers
barely heard over voices and coffee spoons.
A bald cook taps the grill with a spatula
and wipes his neck.
A couple holds hands
across a table.
Markose, who kills himself in four months,
passes bills over a counter…Read more