by Anannya Uberoi
St. Michael’s pitch is torched with
blots of white and gold, and red and blue
for the boys, kicking far and wide—
the game’s on, and it’s on good,
for there is a curly-haired lad blaring Continue reading
by Anannya Uberoi
St. Michael’s pitch is torched with
blots of white and gold, and red and blue
for the boys, kicking far and wide—
the game’s on, and it’s on good,
for there is a curly-haired lad blaring Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Josh P. Cohen
Before corona stole my crown,
I was still the king of Prince Street,
with my bag full of books and medicine,
my brow, furrowed only by the hacky,
drip-drop cough that always lingers
in the winter months and nags
at the back of my throat ‘til spring— Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Old patched quilts hanging over a ladder in a sun-filled corner of the bedroom.
The most colorful one, perhaps a hundred years old, is surprisingly intact.
Its white background interspersed with patterned fabric vibrantly abloom,
delicately repaired by my grandmother, whose tiny stitches can be tracked.
Sewn by hand, a dying skill, women gifting their eyesight to a family’s warmth.
In this manner, heavy cotton quilts map the genealogy of relationships in the north. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Peter Grandbois
There is only this hollow
tree shaped from fear Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Susana H. Case
On vacation in Niagara Falls,
he rips feathers from pillows
in the middle of the night, rains
white birds all over the bed.
This is not the first time Continue reading
Filed under Poetry