My grandfather began to cry
at Thanksgiving dinner when
my grandmother asked him,
“You remember how we met?”
He cried. They don’t know why. Continue reading Thoughts without words by Mike Zimmerman
My grandfather began to cry
at Thanksgiving dinner when
my grandmother asked him,
“You remember how we met?”
He cried. They don’t know why. Continue reading Thoughts without words by Mike Zimmerman
Keep Breathing
When I breathe, I know, open-mouthed,
I allow my ribs to pull up and out,
tensed as the frame drum’s spitting beat,
air pressure lowering so I become
a bubblegum-colored slide into the alveoli.
Continue reading Keep Breathing by David Rodriguez
Expiration
A leaf- a brown leaf
Dangled on a brown tree,
Shaken by the blowing wind Continue reading Expiration by Naushena
Stomping Ground
Each step is a lesson in reverse. A nostalgic walk caught between moving forward and revisiting hurt. This is high school; everything is a matter of mattering. Continue reading Two Prose Poems by Daniel Romo
My New Neighbors
Jack doesn’t live in his house anymore. John, who now lives there, told me that. It’s a corporate decision, he said. John barely knows me but insists on being friends. He brings an expensive bottle of wine and hugs me. This is too fast for me. Continue reading My New Neighbors by Christoph Keller
My Mother’s Photograph
My mother kept her cup of gin nearby.
She had sex in the afternoon. Habit kept
order, swept the floors, ironed the pillowcases,
kept the light on and made her death little by little.
Continue reading My Mother’s Photograph by Cheryl Heineman