Autumn Renga R.Erica Doyle Monica A. Hand Yona Harvey Cherise A. Pollard Kate Rushin Poets’ Group Selections Carol Brown – Refuge Ann Marie Gamble – Somewhere Near the Punch Bowl at the 30-Year Class Reuniom Dareth Ann Goettemoeller – When…
Browsing: Poetry
Sunday morning before my son stirs, I divide the milk for banking bag seven ounces for the ice box put aside a shot glass full for an offering * in one temple’s ritual re-enactment milk is flushed down a drain…
Second-one, smaller than the pea beneath the princess, you toss-and-turn me, my sleep lost in the branches of your mustard-seed-tree just sprouting around the trunks of my aorta. There are so many places to spread your leafy-you inside this insomnious…
I set the trap tonight. Last week I wrote in my journal that life is sacred. Later, I bought the trap. Tonight I read to my child. Do animal mothers love their babies? Yes, yes, of course they do. Animal…
He could do it himself, make his own sandwich, omelette and Monterey Jack in pita bread, no tomato, just a pickle on the side. Could squeeze his own orange juice when he comes to visit. Wash his clothes. I could…
At 2 am I sit in a car in an unmarked parking spot around the corner from the house. Will he escape from his room, jump onto the roof and down to the driveway to run? Earlier, I tell his…
You came when a woman is usually past the messiness of a child with all its evolutionary prized self-centeredness and demand. You came and introduced fear into a life If not well lived, lived with adventure, risk; attempted without regret.…
You would see she exists in defined space composed of small detail: apples, thread, car keys, what’s for dinner Wednesday. If she could move from thread and grocery lists to questions of destiny, love, death— but life interrupts in the…
My name is winter hanging on the hem of spring A mandarin red My mother’s name is long road blues A scattered red My father’s name is twisted psalm A gospel / not red I come from a shouting /…
So Mom, if you come there are rules: no talking about grandpa’s big C or making up your wacky stories. When you pack Christopher’s school lunch, don’t make peanut butter sandwiches, one of his friends might die, and no chocolate.…