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
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Stone
Sated
by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Hills breathe gusts.
Great green lungs
fill with dust
piled under ashen
sky holding back
tears. A blue sadness
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Filed under Poetry
Mixed
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.
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Trout
by Melissa Slayton
Whether it was the cinnamon time, fall,
or spring, the time of the mayapples,
you could smell our bonfires from a hundred miles out at sea,
and the coast swam with clotted villages–
a thick mass–and the trees fell and fell
and the trout swam in this river big as dogs.
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Filed under Poetry
Barre
by S. Bennet
In ballet class on Wednesday
we wondered about Dame Groltz’ sin;
whether it involved her wide buttocks or
ropy-fingered hands…
When the confessional door clicked shut,
you could only hear breathing and see feet
underneath—poor clues. Continue reading
