Pulling the Tooth
Poetry D.W. Moody for days my jaw my bones my face ached occupying my waking thoughts alone in bed I’d stare at the emotionless white ceiling struggling for a few moments of rest one morning upon...
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Poetry Timothy Pilgrim Armpit hair with darkened curl announces a soulful, acoustic woman. Organic. Escapee from brotherhood of jockstrap. I sense hope within black growth, believe she might, indeed,...
View ArticleDry Rope
Broker’s Pick Timothy Pilgrim Hiking in, her weight, constant, seven pounds, be it rain, snow. Tented on glacier, summit above, always curled, her, sinuous pillow for my head— not left out, laid...
View ArticleConfined to Thought
Poetry Holly Day If all of our conversations existed only on postcards, if we only communicated through tiny messages wrapped around the legs of pigeons, if we were only allowed to speak to one another...
View ArticleLittle Murders
Poetry Liz Dolan In the summer of soap you are ninety-nine and 44/100% pure-hearted, Your feet barely sweep the floor. You sit tall and listen. Nothing you do measures up. Each week you begin again...
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Poetry John Grey The Hustlers He’s out there on the sidewalk. determined to save all souls. I drop a quarter in his cup but I refuse his pamphlet. I never took Jesus for a beggar. Or someone who grabs...
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Poetry Michael Paul Hogan Cape Cod Atlantic-facing, Eastern seaboard, the white-framed houses are splashed and flattened before the wind. Their galvanised metal windows have a snow-coming brightness, a...
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Poetry Salvatore Marici Amid Life New immigrants from North Africa, Eastern Europe, live with French in this working class Paris neighborhood. During this fall evening young couples, a few with...
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Poetry Sam Payne The Lakehouse Each day I wake to the sway of your breath gentle as a lake see your naked back glistening in the morning light. Drift a finger over your skin and watch the hairs rise...
View ArticleCelebration
Poetry Deborah Bacharach If you are celebrating silence, I will bring you snow. If you are celebrating happiness, I will drive you to the beach in a red taxi and give you a green daiquiri and a yellow...
View ArticleReading the Bones
Poetry Marchell Dyon She said open your hands When you did Her black hands held your dark palms She began to trace the lines Every stitch of DNA in your hands She tells you to flexed your fingers She...
View ArticleDog and Man
Poetry David Sermersheim the man thinks he is leading the dog but the dog knows the opposite is true where the dog goes the man follows when the dog tarries the man waits patiently collecting warm...
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Poetry Spencer Smith Afterimage That which has gone before slowly seeps through, new bleed from an old wound or faint pentimento of some framed landscape, with artificial borders to hold in water and...
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Poetry Judith Taylor Hindsight Funny how old illusions stay. I want to write: when the long black car came for me, curtains flickered all over the building and where I used to live it would have been...
View ArticleAnniversary Waltz
Beaver’s Pick Donna Pucciani November 24, 2016 I’ve always hated the dark of November, the suddenness of night at four in the afternoon, after custom has dictated the changing of the clocks. As it...
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Baker’s Pick Jim Zola To the Nail Found Under the Pew Mine is the church of the smoldering limb, the burnt self, the flesh missive. At work, Geraldine sits across from me plump in front of her screen...
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Poetry Miki Byrne In the Shadow of Sand Point Somerset, U.K. The coast is not bitten into bay-curves, chewed away by tides to leave a flat spread of sand but is a backwashed muddy curve nestled close...
View ArticleDear Kelsey
Poetry Matthew Heston By the end of the night, I’d looked into your eyes for so long, I had forgotten they were attached to you—like when you repeat a word so many times it starts to lose all its...
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Poetry Simon Perchik * These gravestones left stranded warped from sunrises and drift —they need paint, tides, a hull that goes mouth to mouth the way seagulls come by just to nest and preen though...
View ArticleGrandfather’s Fingers
Poetry Sarah Valeika There were cracks along the ceiling, And one of them looked like a middle finger. Like my grandfather’s middle finger, spindly and dwindling flesh, knobby and grotesquely twisted—...
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