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Letter from Co-Editor Caroline Langston
At last we have left summer behind and turned into fall–at least, those of us who are in the Northern Hemisphere. I’d never even thought about that reality until…
by Joel Peckham
My feeling was, I was a grain of sand—Alexie Leonov, first man to walk in space.
I wasn’t asleep when the light came on and you filled the doorway, it’s happened Jo, you said, oh
by Joel Peckham
A good man’s life is never quite ended.
—Ed White, American Astronaut
1.
At your bedside, as you came awake, I found myself
by Maxim D. Shrayer
In the first spring of Covid fever,
still quarantined and fearful,
we bought a tall townhome
directly across the street
by Maxim D. Shrayer
Working in his kitchen garden
a gentle Jew is disregarding
thoughts of mammon as he gathers
what remains of his carrots,
by Jean Anne Feldeisen
Once, when religion meant goodness,
my family sat all together
in a pew near the front on the left, sat
upright, and quiet, if not always reverent.
by Edward A. Dougherty
Like these lands we travel through,
I have grown weary, so rough, so dry.
I wet a finger to give suck
by Adele Ne Jame
Of all his self-portraits, perhaps
we most love Beggar Seated on a Bank,
hunched in rags, scruffy hair,
by Stephen M. Sanders
My grandfather often walks
about my mental backwoods
just before I sleep. In the shades,
he looks, but does not speak.
by Stephen M. Sanders
I sat on a weathered, wooden bench
in the midst of fear-moistened believers
hanging themselves
on the evangelist’s words:
The Evangelist Sees
by Stephen M. Sanders
My hosts had refurbished
everything in the house:
all three stories were full
by Brandon James O’Neill
I paint because the spirits whisper madly inside my head. –El Greco
My uncle Wilbur heard
whispers too but never
put brush to canvas
by Chila Woychik
I picture it. A billion steely crosses
penetrating his vulnerability.
The porcupine god suffering in stereotype.
Every private part we cover with shame, exposed.
by Chila Woychik
What’s hanging in that tree?
A thorn in the paw, and oh
that face. The reaper’s angry,
the situation critical, for I feel
by Peter Carrington Venable
She lives among the Anakim,
twelve-foot-high giants,
their waists barely at eyelevel.
She looks skyward to see their faces.
by Jonathan Frey
If I had been there in the pew when you
handed her the bread and wine, I'd have pushed
by Angela Townsend
I believe more. I use fewer words.
Painters and quilters entrance me. They process the world in visions, prophets of color. Runners and ballerinas beckon me. They hit the flow beyond knowing, working out knots without syntax.
by Michelle Chun
I am interested in the ways information, fragments, and materials exist, accumulate, and circulate within a community.