by Drew Heuermann
Our hands, interlocked through the night. Doing what we can to keep
our lanterns close. Our bodies, a pair of spent tissues
floating around, too fragile to rush. A religion of inconsequence,
of passing. But what does that mean for everything in my arms?
The last mom-job of Grandma’s body was one squeeze. Almost every
body had a name once, and before they were bodies? Were we Continue reading
by Ron Domen
I woke from a restless dream about my father
who recently died. He would have been 102
this month. I got out of bed and went outside.
No faint glow from the rising sun was visible
and I was in awe of the dark clear sky.
Jupiter was in the eastern sky in the constellation
Gemini with its two bright stars Castor and Pollux.
Taurus and Orion were in their glory as was Sirius
the brightest star. When I was 10 my father helped
me build my first telescope and sparked a lifelong
interest in astronomy. In my dream my father
was alone walking away from me toward trillions
of points of light. He looked back briefly and waved.
Ron Domen is a retired physician living in central Pennsylvania. He has two published books of poetry (The Owl in the Woodwork, Finishing Line Press and Plaintive Music, Dos Madres Press).
by Ramiro Valdes
You grasp the back
Of my neck,
And pluck trenches
Out of my vertebrae
For your fingers
To sleep in. You root
Yourself in me,
Continue reading
by Matt Bearden
It should be dehydrated now,
at least enough to not make a mess
on the floor. Still, it hangs
in the corner like a cocoon. Continue reading
by Erin Matheson Ritchie
Michelle divorces her husband and passes
a decidual cast the same week, her body
expelling eight years’ entropy with a vise grip
cramp more painful than the split. Continue reading
