The Digging

by A. J. Perry, an excerpt from the novel The Old People (Thames River Press, 2014) 

And then it might occur that just when it seems to the Old People that things cannot get any worse–when it seems that nets can get no emptier nor the river any drier–things can in fact get much worse. That the rains will continue to not come–not just through the rainy months of this year but through the rainy months of many years. And that the wood carver in his search for his digging tool will have gone from one end of the river to the other–from the top of the mountain to the edge of the sea–without finding the digging tool that was buried. And that each of the knot makers is still holding to his own way of knot tying such that in time the knots will cease to be tied at all. And the waters will cease to flow. And the holes of the island can no longer be dug. Continue reading

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Akamu, the Fisher King

by Apryl Skies

Akamu, the fisher king
whose name knows no age,
only the touch
of man to earth,
tide and bind

He crouches at shore
with line and hook
held as moon against
an ocean’s abandoned sky Continue reading

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Seeds

by Sandra Sidman Larson

I walk by a garden pool
where water lilies glide

slowly with the afternoon breeze,
showing off their creamy faces.

Once in a fit of rage I tore
alameda vines I’d grown

off my back yard fence.
Someone else lives there now, Continue reading

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Bouncing the Porpis

by Charles Harper Webb

 
            We’re bouncing The Porpis, / Bouncing The Porpis,
             Bouncing The Porpis, / That is what he likes.

I made the song up for my son—porp (derived
from Shakespeare’s fretful porpentine) being
the fullness of human emotion—fear, rage, hunger,
need for love and diaper-changing—he conveyed
in cries, shrieks, coos, and general fuss
as I bounced, at 3 a.m., on waves of sleep. Continue reading

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Chasing After Papang

By Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor

My mother is two years younger than my eight-year-old daughter when the Japanese attack the Philippines. She is outside in the early December sunshine, playing with her five- and three-year-old sisters and my grandfather’s sister. Somewhere inside a clapboard house nearby, my grandmother rubs her pregnant stomach, her mind on what time her husband will come home from his daily patrol. A common day for Wardville, the small neighborhood where dependents of the Philippine Scouts and US Army live and sleep. Continue reading

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