by Ellen June Wright

I have a friend whose adult son fell ill,
within a week he died.

It’s been months, but she cries as though
she just held him in her arms and watched

you’ll find

Only your Picture in my Mind.

—Andrew Marvell

by Mark Mansfield

Gaze at certain works of art awhile,

and something else emerges. You’ll see

to town founders

with small imaginations,

to three-day weekend

scenes that neither

deceive nor redeem

in Lava Hot Springs

by Paula M. Rodriguez

She sat in her house robe
scissors in hand.
Uncle Manuel had migrated
to Cuba years ago.
His letters used to come

by Mary Buchinger

I just got out of prison –Three years –
Long time – I’m ready tho’ – Ready to be out.
Not a private admission,

you're dead and until the end of time or
make it Eternity, whenever that
ends then you've got something but anyway
it's part of religion and thank God that I

by Will Neuenfeldt

The dead stand
naked in summer.
Gaunt fingers flail
mistaken for waves,
flail too far and daisies

would be easier if our hearts
were local burger joints
and someone cemented
screaming red safety poles

by Zachary Dankert

A sentence, a central image, my grandmother
wades neck-deep into the Atlantic and watches

without her eyes, words terraces of a temple
leading to Jerusalem’s image. Down the shore

by Zachary Dankert

I’ve written myself

into an insect, God

is a red fruit.

What I’ve learned

of sin is from

everything in skin

that sprays

by Richard Jackson

When Dante finally arrived there he had no words

for it.

The frog giggers in the river must think

by Rolf Parker-Houghton

On his way to Bethlehem,

King Sigurd offered Saracens of Colares

the sacrament on the tip of a spear.

If they took the sacred into their mouths, they lived.

question asked by Mary Carroll-Hackett

by Ace Boggess

Spent the morning waiting

in the auto-service customer lounge,

listening through grinding

by Terri Brown-Davidson

Revolutions have been fought on this mattress.

The dark stains under me express

My involuntary subversion. Sometimes

by Terri Brown-Davidson

A shy sparrow tucked into its mud hole,

Never revealing its secret egg,

I wanted my empty-nest uterus to sprout

Flowers, lascivious fruit. But my cracked shell

by Jesse Caverly

All these places I've lived yet none I made a home.
Nothing hung on walls, no totems on the mantle. Not even a welcome mat.
Furniture as afterthought, useful objects, not heirlooms.

by Eric Machan Howd

new dirt gathers between the pews
and the Sunday School shakes
its buckets in a noisy offering
to replace the building’s rotting doors

by Eric Machan Howd

I. The Father

My son banks on organ music

to lift his spirits. He listens

to the ranks of pipes speak their deep

advice from the loft as his church

by James Hannon

Under the unquenchable mid-day fire,

to bake, to smolder, to drink this much

and no more,

always hungry, feet groaning

and for what, he asked the beginning.

by Sanket Mhatre

A story could be divided into two

Like a piece of layered earth

Right down to its crust

Revealing the core - like an innocent mango, ripening