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DECAY
by Leslie Gerber Sure, last year is over but I've never smelled an old year decaying like this— a complex odor of loam, sweat, decomposing flesh, atrophying muscle and brain tissue, bitter regret and stale beer. Memories of those I knew drop from me like flakes of skin and sink into the reeking mud where they spoil like forgotten milk. All combine to attack the dawn, drown out the songs of the few birds who have failed to flee my winter climate. |
PRESTON'S KITCHEN by Joan Carroll Kudin |
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MOVING AWAY
by Jane Beal The fire. The blue speckled eggs. Empty nest and empty boxes: in the amber morning opening the window clearing away the cobwebs caught by surprise— call it sorrow. Call it milk in my breasts, but no baby. |
DREAMING OF NEW HEIGHTS by Joan Carroll Kudin |
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A FAMILY OF WOMEN IN LOVE'S KITCHEN
by Viola Weinberg Once while dining at the club She went crazy, she stood and tore her Tailored linen blouse to shreds The place was speechless For a full minute the buttons flew No silver stirred, no glass was raised At other tables, other women Sat with their ankles crossed In dresses of georgette and chiffon They looked dimly into their plates It was Sunday, Family Day at the club But at our table, her big breasts Were falling out of their white cups And the harsh cry of a crow sputtered from her caw Bounced from the buffet table to the pool Just as suddenly, she swept through The room like a stately yacht— Her flapping napkin flown low across the bow |
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