sprovence
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L. Johnson, Blackberry Days
Leo Johnson Blackberry Days “These taste better wild,” I said. She looked up from the phone in her hand long enough to see the clamshell container of blackberries I held. “Oh, yeah? That’s great…” she trailed off.I kept on. “Where I grew up, you could go out into the woods and find blackberries growing wild…
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M. Kirby, The Wild Makes
Merie Kirby design by Vitoria Faccin-Herman The wild makes no profit Merie Kirby grew up in California and now lives in North Dakota. She teaches at the University of North Dakota. She is the author of two chapbooks, The Dog Runs On and The Thumbelina Poems. Her poems have been published in Mom Egg Review,…
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J. Ziegler, The Ant Path
Jenna Ziegler The Ant Path We’d watch the ant path,my brother and I,noses to the stone.He liked to help them,dropping offerings along their trail—leaves, sap, crumbs from his own lunch.He’d pluck aphids from the rosebushes(our mother thanked him for caring for the flowers)and place them before the ants—watched the feast.My brother smiled with dimples,proud to…
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P. Hostovsky, Romantic
Paul Hostovsky Romantic I’m thinking of moving to Keats Street in Winthrop because I love the idea more than the thing.I don’t love Winthrop, which is too close to the airport, and I don’t love moving, which is stressful and derailing. I love Keats, though, and I could take the trainto work from Revere. I…
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S. Vinson, Morning Glory
Susan Vinson Morning Glory Two clocks on the wall, dripping faucets,alternately fill in all the empty spaces;pulsing hands push the slivered moonthrough the crisping airwhile pulling purple larkspur from the powdery earthand weaving ribbons of birdsong into the warmscent of the sun rising throughsips of steaming coffee.Abby Lynne laughs in Abilenewhile my thoughts can’t hear…
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E. Shack, Aubade
Elizabeth Shack Aubade Walk up the worn stone stepsbetween pecan and redbud.Among ferns, dance.Bend back, face to sky.Greet the new sun.In fog or cloudy aftermath of storm,on grass littered with leaves,give thanks for the newworld of stone, rain,greenlight. Elizabeth Shack lives in central Illinois with her spouse, cat, and an expanding collection of art supplies…
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S. Lang, Prescribed Burn
Susanna Lang Prescribed Burn A fire goes before us. —Yves Bonnefoy Workers in fluorescent suits, helmeted, faceless, carry wands with fire at their tips. Flames run up the spiral path to the summit, leaving a trail of ash. Rivulets of smoke twist over the dark river— serpent mound burningTwo days later, the air is still…
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A. Careaga, Spindled
Andrew Careaga Spindled We knew exactly what the words do not fold meant. We’d been folding stuff since kindergarten, when we creased construction paper and cut them into paper snowflakes to tape on our classroom walls. My older brother was the master folder of our family. He got into origami, folded thick colored paper into…
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K. Watt, Grandmother
Kelly Watt Grandmother She lies in bed, sick with night sweats and shivers, aching joints. Strange premonition of something not right. Incessant rain the crops have withered and died. The fire crackles like a living thing, rearranging itself. Grandmother tiptoes across the wooden floor on cold bare feet to coax the fire. Returns to the…
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A. Burris, Egyptian
Allison Burris Egyptian Pet Cemetery An excavation of pets preserved in the desert. 536 cats, 32 dogs,15 monkeys, a fox, and a falcon.Not mummified, but precious losswrapped in blankets, palm leaves. Some were toothless old seniors wearing beaded collars, cared forbeyond the life of their teeth.Somehow, it’s easier to imaginethe sun-warmed life of a happy…