By Craig Martin Getz

If I were color blind, truly blind to color,

I would just see the cock, the heavy outline black,

the balls’ forest razored curve

coming out of chiaroscuro.

By Arkava Das

the room ballasted with sunset

sings

not everything troubles you as soon

as you forget it

By S.D. Lishan

Prelude:

Ah, here we are, wild puppy eyed in the far flung of us.

Like the others, I, too, fling me sad-eared to the one we talk to,

And asked for a healing wind in the once of my needs.

“Let me have a week, just one, of true-work,

By Madeline Vardell

Every Wednesday, before lunch and post-Algebra,

they wipe the red gloss from their lips and put

the Lord in their white socks and shiny black patent

Mary Janes: a billow of plaid-striped corduroy.

By Elizabeth Savage

a charmed life
let him keep it

& riches of love
suffering misses

let him
keep it

By Madeline Vardell>br/>

Rooted at her center life

unmoves but all

around swirling me

shrapnel , branches. Where

By Elizabeth Savage

Talk that Roman talk
When in October

scatter candy corn
no backward look

When roads divide

By Janice Worthen

We approach things at angles

because a direct approach is an insult.

An ear is a temple,

anger a bird pulling out its own feathers

on a branch consumed by fire,

By Chad Hanson

Jack bought a waterbed and filled it with a hose from
the front yard. Every two minutes he shut off the
water and added a bottle of whiskey

By Mark Jackley

Your silence and then the mild remark

about the weather brought to mind

how people close a door sometimes

using two hands —

one to carefully turn the knob,

By Chad Hanson

Since he retired, Ben has been making toys. He gives them to the kids in the family. This year, when she turned four, he gave a dollhouse to his granddaughter.

By Mark Jackley

No one but the bee,

and maybe not even him,

knows where he is going

as he zips, loops,

pauses to catch his breath.

By Darren C. Demaree

If this were an orchard
how lovely it would be
if Emily fell from a tree
as the mangos fall, roll

By Darren C. Demaree

If this were an orchard

how lovely it would be

if Emily fell from a tree

as the mangos fall, roll

By Chad Hanson

Myers works for a company. He understands the bargain that he struck. Most days a paycheck seems

By Elena Botts

she said,

are you happy. i don’t know that’s the sort of dream

i haven’t yet woken from.

and i said, do the cows in the pasture, do they pray

like we pray.

and i said, when i walk in the cold

By Arielle Greenberg

I really want you the dad I’m babysitting for

to fuck me or rather to want to

bringing me home in your turquoise sports car

babysitting dad will you get me in trouble

give me a story I can tell an afterschool special

By Arielle Greenberg

, the day of Phobias.
Children born on this day will be ugly & die.
You say three years can swallow one moment of a mother
throwing herself against a wall.
I don’t know. I have my doubts,

By Amy Woschek Schmidt

From the nectar I have forged, the hummingbird

is drawn to drink.

By Brian McCarty

We keep one eye to the sky, one fixed on parallel mounds

of tilled red loam. The blood knows

apocalypse, stirs as these new leaves stir

in the late spring breeze. The eye knows

the weather; the seasons become mantra.

By Colin Dodds

Crapping out two days’ liquor and fast food

in the perfunctory luxury of the resort hotel’s handicapped stall,

Spill-O admired the dark wood of the bathroom door

By Colin Dodds

The mirror shows Spill-O bloated and cross-eyed,

all his bluster revealed to be little else

Filled with a rock-solid down-and-out feeling,

familiar from the Fall to this fall, with the leaves

By Colin Dodds

Spill-O’s destination is a rueful interruption

after hours in a church whose confessional is a driver’s seat

and whose altar is the distance

By Laura Bernstein-Machlay

inevitable as poltergeists

in these old buildings

that go on existing despite gravity and entropy

and spontaneous combustion.

By Laura Bernstein-Machlay

On Cass, I think. Maybe 2nd
beside a boarded-up liquor store.
Underage us nuzzling each
a bottle of fizzy alcoholic something,

By Mary Carroll-Hackett

involves pilgrims, not the hand-turkey kind, not the brass-buckled blind bulletin board thieves, but travelers, proselytes, seekers, willing to walk over grassy plains, dry for more than thirty years with scant rain, drought forcing out this parade of the thirsty, stumbling due east across the Altiplano toward the blue white peaks of the Andes.

By Mary Carroll-Hackett

and dirty fingernails, angels, ten thousand of them, living in trailers, canned angels, holy meat, languishing in the Carolina heat, driving up from Kinston, and Shelby, and Bear Grass, and Calico, driving in the vans they bought second hand at Car Coop, headed to the ocean, to Buxton, to Avon, to Duck, for a day, for a week, seeking some sun, and some water.

By Mary Carroll-Hackett

As a child, she could make herself invisible, so wrapped she was in dreams of angels in the trees, and aliens in the cornfield, and becoming Houdini, tied up in sheets she shook free from the bed, begging her brother to bind her hands and feet, so she could show him how they would escape.

By Kathleen Jesme

Nothing of now has a future except in memory where it is washed, pressed,

hung and stored, first in the front closet and then, when that show

has closed, further and further back, so that over time

By Kathleen Jesme

The border was right there a river

another source a permeable frontier one without walls

a stone’s throw to a different country although I never threw