Poetry by Nancy R. Yang the rented house on the water its iron statue of a horse on the lawn and forget-me-nots scattered like glitter the freeway in the distance is a white whir. The ride in the car for barbecue, windows down so everyone can see my face. Like the little boys turning their … Read More
A Horse Ran Amok
Poetry by Shari Neva Hollander A horse ran amok Or so it seemed to those watching But in his singular mind, it was a dash Through spring pastures as a colt A sprint to the finish line as a yearling His last furlong as an old stud Before consigning himself To the hay in the … Read More
What I Miss Most
Poetry by Lewis Leicher Why, when I close my eyes, do I still see a city? Buildings piled high, bees flying from dumpster to dumpster, yellow cabs blooming in the streets. Mid-July in Manhattan, 90° by 10:00 A.M.—the cracked sidewalks, trying to perfect their tans, are getting sunburned. No air conditioning at home, I go … Read More
December 1972
Poetry by Lewis Leicher We all have personal landmarks—public places that matter to us for private reasons, with no brass plaques to say why. My favorite was the big wooden phone booth, in the lobby of a midtown New York hotel, where I first really kissed a girl I was in love with, in December … Read More
When I Was Five
Poetry by Lewis Leicher When I was five, I accidently learned how to ride a bike without training wheels: those miniature rear tires became loose enough to slide backward and lift up from the sidewalk, no longer providing any training. I wasn’t an intrepid kid … risk-taking did not come easily to me (still doesn’t)—I’d … Read More
I think to call sometimes to explain
Poetry by Andréa Ferrell Gannon to repaint the swimming pool and sky for you, Hockney blue and shadowless behind my dad’s apartment. Remember phoning nightly? Meet me, code for walk half the road for me. Those horrid June bugs, big as beach balls, pinwheeling between lamplight and starlight. We clung to each other but delighted … Read More
As If I Knew What I Was Doing
Poetry by Andréa Ferrell Gannon I caught four metros to get to your white sand, planted my ass, waited patient as moonlight, faced the sea, an ear cocked to catch the glassy splinter of your approach. You asked, Why’d you come? I asked, Why’d you, motherfucker? Words nudged us to the center of a Venn diagram, … Read More
Abecedarian for an Inheritance
Poetry by Andréa Ferrell Gannon April, boxing Mother’s estate: bundles of crayon drawings, baby books, and Hallmark cards. Congratulations! a baby girl. You’re disappointed—but she’ll be Daddy’s every happiness. Date ordered, filed docs: our relation’s gangster days in evidence, gay-bashing, road raging, steroid hazes. For Dad: parole forms, prison intakes: Rolaids, belt, watch, wallet. How they … Read More
A New Tune
Poetry by Misty Wycoff I imagine myself in a hallway, outside a music room with a piano, hearing but not seeing a small girl beating out the high notes both hands in flight. The plunking, clinking of the black and whites filter into the day, surround me, pairing themselves with my heart’s new rhythm. Weeks … Read More
Exploration
Poetry by Misty Wycoff A child fell to the ground, stepping instead into the veil of gravity, his hand ripping through the portal and wounding itself. A small tear, a bit of blood, a pinprick, a new experience this wound. Then, this little boy held his whole arm up as if broken, flat out in … Read More