Jules Jacob Land of Collective Misunderstandings I wheel soil from a stranger’s yard. Steal clover to lure bees. Search online for mason jars and an apiarist willing to travel more than fifty miles away. I want chemical-free land but…
Browsing: Curated
Lorraine Currelley Domestics (For: Domestics, Our Unsung Heroines) gentrification invades our eyes with its growing visual stench. our love putting food on our tables, cleaning invader’s homes. it is our need we hear, when their children call us by our…
Sandra Crouch The Miracle The way the bush beans begin with curls and winding our story grown from seed not with the motion of bodies meeting and meeting again but inside the thick yellowing leaves of the soon-potatoes, the…
Jodi Boulton The Badlands They say they’re the result of two geological processes, deposition and erosion. What I know is this: The earth there rubs like dry, gritty clay and is the color of putty against my palms. Alligator…
Summer / Girl – A Literary Folio Featuring poetry, fiction, and prose by Richelle Buccilli – Dear Backyard Honeysuckle Vanessa Napolitano – Yellow Cabinet Emily Patterson – Near the Fourth of July in a Pandemic Kelly Sue White –…
Richelle Buccilli Dear backyard honeysuckle Past the fresh lumber of the new wood fence, past the heat of late May sweating on our foreheads, past smoke, past clay, past dirt, past even the diesel fumes, you stay. As if…
Vanessa Napolitano Yellow Cabinet You painted the drawers with gilt handles yellow, out in the garden. Seven months pregnant, a neckerchief fashioned into a hat. Black and orange paisley in your hair and your hair long and chestnut. Your shoulders…
Emily Patterson Near the Fourth of July in a Pandemic The summer you were born, fireworks sputtered and crackled every night for weeks, briefly luminous. Roused from sleep by the weight of you, I heard them still, even as…
Kelly Sue White River Summer The days of slow flow river time, canoe banked on a sandy spit, the kids- their bathing suit bellies full of cherries in ankle deep water. Little red fingers grabbed at sunlight. Fists full…
Terri Linton Boogie Down Girls I. Mister Softee croons his hood melody. We clamor and crowd, chests to backs filling our sweltering Bronx street. Sprinkles drip their rainbow sweetness from vanilla-wafered cones. Ready, set, they race down our bleached…