The only thing dead is my right arm—limp as a stunned mackerel washed up by the surf.I can see the fish is still attached to my shoulder.How weird is that? I can’t grasp the word for stroke. Nothing makes sense. I forget about breakfast,forget I should be hungry but don’t forgetto apply lipstick and sunblock. I’m not close to dead.Not even dying. In the ambulance, … Continue reading After the Stroke by Dale Champlin
“Sharks are as primordial as fear itself.”-Willow Defebaugh The megalodon was a massive shark, with six-foot jaws and triangular teeth up to seven inches long. Such a creature serves as a fitting emblem of Donna Dallas’ latest book, named in the extinct beast’s honor. In her title poem, Dallas explores her metaphorical relationship to this massive, shadowy creature that lurks beside her. Megalodon represents the destructive evil … Continue reading Fathoming the Abyss: Donna Dallas’ Megalodon by J. Khan
A new reality, my poet’s communitydeparts Kaprielian Hall, displaced home, sweet homelogs-on Lenovo/Apple/HP/Dell laptops, Zoom.My comfort regarding familiar screen faces voices, support, a vaccine, & fortress we’ve builtagainst the Trumprona-45 virus.COVID-19 pneumonia kills like shit stinksa spawning virus, fluid-filled lungs inflame bleed, drown—when Liberty can’t breatheU.S.N.S. Comfort sails N.Y.C. subways.Trumprona-45 contagion smothers reasonmines fear’s depth, we backstroke toxic swamps of lies Donald J. Trump’s hiss … Continue reading T-45 Contagion by Ron L. Dowell
I’m still confused as to why I was fired from the clothing store on my first day when all I was trying to do was be helpful, supportive and direct with each of my customers. I told them honestly and fairly what I thought of the clothing they were purchasing so that each would be satisfied and want to return to the store again. As … Continue reading Misunderstood by Jeffrey Zable
In his 2017 book, Kids These Days, Malcolm Harris predicts, among other things, the eventual raging return of on-blast misogyny (what he refers to as the “misogynist backlash”). Mainly as a result of looking for a scapegoat to blame for the way things are when, in fact, things are that way as a direct result of the patriarchal, male-spewed “values” we all still adhere to … Continue reading As The #MeToo Backlash Continues, Let Us Remember the Short Stories of Emma Cline’s Daddy
Winter holds the sunransom behind a thick white sky,an infinite, opaque blanket of cloudsclutched in the armsof the extortionist. If you knew what you had to doto set the sun free;to shine furiously on all of us—would you do it? Continue reading Pledge by Sara Altman
I saw Seamus Heaney onceat Grolier’s Bookstorein Harvard Square, which carriedonly poetry. He waslifting and looking at booksjust like I was. I knew whohe was, but had not readhis poetry. It crossedmy mind to ask him ifI could buy a beer for him. He saw me see him, smiledsaid nothing, just went on looking. I think he left not long after andI forget if I … Continue reading Grolier’s Bookstore by Frank Freeman
I catch glimpses of her darting across campus. I turn my head, and she’s gone. Blue jeans, fluttering faded blue sleeves. Then one night I see her in the library, rattling a metal cart loaded with books down an aisle. Like a moth, I’m drawn there every night to get my fix of light: a glimpse of worn sandals, bare toes, twig fingers with little … Continue reading Jem in Love by Linda Ferguson
Skin, blue,like mistletoe berriesunder her midnight sun,she sways and humsto the tune of firefliesin flightand whispers upon the windthrough bare branches.Night’s chill rests, warm,upon bare shouldersin want of cover, butthe animaand bloodare numb to Winter’s sting.So, she dances,the wreath of Spring,long fallen away,beyond crystalline graspsof icy fingertips(or loving hands).Fallingsilent and still—a night heron frozen, mid-flight—she turns, slowly,to meand the offending glowof yellow lamplighton bedroom walls … Continue reading Frozen Charlotte by David Estringel
My mom rarely let me have cotton candy, but as I lay with my back against the dew-covered grass on that hill in Green Valley, that’s exactly what the clouds looked like. The sun shined bright enough to make my eyes want to close. My Sunday school teacher, Miss Jackie, had said that everything we could see in nature was made by God. I wondered … Continue reading Mushrooms by CLS Sandoval
