By: Linda M Crate there’s such judgment in your eyes i know you couldn’t possibly be a friend you’re too willing to jump down my throat and pull taut the wings of my dreams until they cut and crumble upon…
By: Linda M Crate the soft whisper of my voice is like a rustling of leaves people are always trying to talk over me with the roars of their ocean, but they do not tend to their birds that’s always…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb The inevitable searching season Starts its reactive actions on the crowd But in the blind age only Keeping two luminous witnesses The Sun and the Moon In one hand And in other Compelling the eyes To…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb How long is the tape of longings? Unlimited- the prompt hereditary answer Revealing One of the childish ideas We conceive and feel proud of While Counting stops itself very soon in measuring The limited means of…
By: Janna Vought When I hit the windshield, I think about laundry in the dryer, chicken for dinner thawing on the counter—my daughters. I land in the space between the nothing, tangled up in my headphone wires. My body shatters, pieces…
By: Janna Vought Elizabeth Báthory, 1560-1614, history’s most prolific serial killer, accused of torturing and killing hundreds of young women, then bathing in her victim’s blood. I’m shadow, a symbol cast to paper. I’m myth ravaged by hungry heat, bloated with…
By: William Ogden Haynes Today I found my father’s old wristwatch. The battery was finally dead, although it probably lasted about a year longer than he did, dependably counting the minutes in case someone wanted to glance at the correct time….
By: William Ogden Haynes I was a young professor with a newly-minted doctorate driving south from Ohio to work at Auburn University. I pulled my old Chevy into a used car dealership and before I could get out of the car,…
By: Ruth Asch The trees in silhouette, laid flat by grey light: old keepsakes, dry and frail, pressed on a page of sky. Only one blot – twigs knotted, lodged aslant; a reckless crafting, proffered to the winds or hungry eye….
By: Ruth Asch They are rebuilding proud Palmyra from kebab-sticks, (the pride of peoples, razed to dust.) One can no longer sit by a temple wall to write of doubt, from ramparts satirize the world of power; party, or paint a…