When I was just five
the water truck dampened the stone-clogged roadways
in a daily ritual
to bless the paths we traveled to touch one another.
Their corduroy surfaces laced our community, binding us to each other
a fortuitous family, once strangers
who built lives at the end of dirt roads. Continue reading Dust Dreams by Nancy Lee
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
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
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
but human life is confined in a glass box
draped in a black curtain;
there’s nothing behind it.
but it’s our audacity that makes us try
Continue reading Vivarium by K.J. Williams
chalk dust subsumes
into the board, a shared
our fingertips circling
Chance Austin-Brecher is a San Diego based poet born in Redlands, California.
Caring Is Still Creepy
Is there a pill to make me not be this?
(I’m asking for a friend.) Continue reading Caring Is Still Creepy and Modest Mouse B-Side by C.J. Miles