Author Archives: alannasolomon

14 Lines for Vacancies 

by Matthew LaFreniere

We drive, my mother and I, down
Timberlake, not silent but not talking,
the neons of store signs and brake lights stark Continue reading

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How to Fly with One Wing

by Stephani Nur Colby

From the memoir Walking with the Ineffable by Green Writers Press

Sometimes the clinical unit felt as if, rather than being rooted on mothership earth, it was idly circling in the meteor belt deep in space. The twelve severely and profoundly cognitively impaired children who lived in its cinderblock and linoleum capsule seemed to ramble – those who could ramble – in a kind of Brownian movement, unfocussed, drifting by walls and chairs as if impelled by eccentric, unseen gravitational forces that sent them hither and thither, reasonless. The children themselves often seemed like lonely asteroids, shot out of the shattered core of some larger planet where parts of them – the parts that gave speech, sight, hearing, linear reason, functional ability, even varying degrees of physical motion – had been left behind. And here they were, still trying to live out their lives – butterflies with only one wing. Continue reading

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Surge: A Task

by Eric Paul Shaffer

A dead fish means more, without me
telling you the finny stillness on ice
is uhu or aku or ahi. That’s good eating. Continue reading

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Dancers’ Moving Day

by Sharyn Skeeter

From the novel Dancing with Langston from Green Writers Press

The jerk sat with his fingers tapping on the meter, waiting for his tip.

“Lady! Look, I can’t get the cab through. They got that truck blockin’ the street. You gotta get outta here.”

“Get out here? Are you kidding?”

This wasn’t good for me, but he was right. There was no way into the side street, past the construction truck and parked cars. I had to lug out from the back seat the old blue suitcase and plaid carry-on that I’d brought for Cousin Ella’s clothes. Continue reading

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Signs of Spring

by Daniel Lusk

For some, it’s a robin.
For him, a spider in the sink.

A yellow birch down
across the lane, white slush
a hand’s breadth deep,
floating on the mud.

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