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ORPHAN
by Timothy Pilgrim Mother, father, both gone, dead, two truths emerge for any children left. One, you are an orphan. Two, you are next. |
OCTOBER 11 by Lynn Crounse |
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by Simon Perchik The glaze from your stone shelters this sink, carved by its constant drip for shoreline and more foam —twice every day I shave to make room though my beard never has a chance trembling in graveyard grass —I begin each morning then again by going home to mow, barely holding on though each cheek half blood, half wandering alone weighs almost nothing except for the splash that clings to your name. |
OAXACA by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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WHILE THE NEEDLE POINTS WEST
by Ashley Warren Sitting still like an ice-picked statue, a record crackles and a visible wind makes the ice daggers shake. The sun, useless, sheds dust rays over photos of warmth and pale fingers too dry to bend. I listen for drops of thaw, then remember that the storm is still tired. Too tired for noise above a whistle, too bitter to paint with green, and still eager to point the needle West. |
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