by Sue Allison
One day the weather disappeared: it wasn’t fine or foul, hot or cold, wet or dry, mild or severe. It wasn’t anything you could name. It wasn’t light but it wasn’t dark, either. It was murky. The outside was murky, as if an opaque scrim had descended and hidden the blues and greens and lilac shades and all the varying temperatures there wasn’t a scale could measure, there were too many and they were in flux. At first, everyone assumed it was a new weather, but still weather and as such would burn off or blow through in a day or two, the way weather did. If anyone had known it was going to be permanent, something might have been able to have been done about it, or so people said afterwards; but, as other people said after that, it is easy to say things afterwards. Continue reading
by Lisa Higgs
Along the edges of snowmelt, a thin skin
of what is not ice, of what is not snow,
but some rare weave of form passing its twin
in selfsame geneses. Strand of marrow,
waiting its tide. Pull of light a discipline
by Darrell Dela Cruz
A stone forms inside of me.
A collection of salt I consumed
and loved–oversaturated fries,
opaque eggs. For years I let the smoke
by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Hills breathe gusts.
Great green lungs
fill with dust
piled under ashen
sky holding back
tears. A blue sadness
by Laurel Nakanishi
I will not hide the hollow bodies of my prairie ancestors, those wrapped up in gun-smoke out where it is never really blue or cloudless. I have their muddied green eyes, their nose pinched against cold. My clothes bunched out as theirs, but I don’t double-knot my apron. I have none.