by Chris Abbate
A neighbor and I drag you down
two flights of stairs,
grunt against your heft,
a dying animal to be euthanized.
We turn your rigid body
gently around corners
as if not to hurt you,
as if you could feel pain. Continue reading
by Chris Abbate
A neighbor and I drag you down
two flights of stairs,
grunt against your heft,
a dying animal to be euthanized.
We turn your rigid body
gently around corners
as if not to hurt you,
as if you could feel pain. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Beth Oast Williams
Opening is what my hands do
to catch what falls from the sky, loose
blossoms in wind, like snow in July. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by tia north
School lessons never say
that the future
is undoing our past,
that the tongue, stubborn and steadfast,
is a barrier Continue reading
by Karen Benke
On the walk home my son and I gather leaves.
At the kitchen table he colors them blue.
One by one, we tape them to the window
next to the pink snowflakes he and his babysitter make. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Lisa C. Taylor
When the whale dominates
the frame,
everything that isn’t whale
becomes insignificant. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry