sprovence
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L. Rzeznik, Pie
Leslie Rzeznik Pie we could be the clatter of twoknives cutting butter into flourwe could be the creaming of sugarand eggs by spinning cageswe could be cinnamon and cardamomginger and cloves ground into dustcould we find pleasure in the cutof a knife, the releaseof a cage, the gaspof dust?the limb about to leaf shedswinter’s husk…
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J. Hassmann, Buddies
Jan Hassmann buddies the average lifespan of a taste bud is ten daysyet bitterness staysand staysand stays Jan Hassmann first studied and then taught English Literature at universities far from home. He has recently returned to Europe, where he runs an amicable poetry club in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. His poetry and prose have appeared in WireWorm…
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K. Lazorchak, Pomegranate, Dissected
Karina Lazorchak Pomegranate, Dissected A nurse enterswith a warm handAnd a swollen heart, Desperate for a taste of tartness tosoothe the pain ofdiscordant hospital roomsShe reaches toward thescarlet sculpture,wearing a Sweet’n Low smileto hide the sour withinBloody, ripe flesh sits patiently on the operating table,All veins and arteriesopen for observationA pip bursts in twoand its…
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D. Lassell, Eventual Light
Daniel Lassell Eventual Light Though the dawn anticipates blessing the shed’s glossed shovel,the packets of waiting seeds seethe, dropped into empty pots along the shed’s exterior.Another day and they are againto witness the morning’s warmth, victims of procrastination. Where is the gardener? Drinking coffee on the porch again? The seeds, eager for burial, desire the…
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D. Kotsiopolous, When the Nursing Home
Dorian Kotsiopolous When the Nursing Home Wants to Know How We Are and What We Should Do With His Belongings I thinkhow he came to this country all by himself from Louvri, a tiny village in Greece, with few belongings and how he left with few belongings, but in between how he cradled the first…
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J. Prinsen, Island
Jeannie Prinsen Island Nights we were young, kitchen a poolof light, we gathered snug, tethered by the woodstove’s warmth,Dad napping on the couch, Mom’s irongentling his cotton shirts. We did homework,radio low, skipped crokinole disks across the board like stones. For company we brought more chairs, spreading the circle. The whole world floated cosy in…
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C. Cottom, When You Know
Chris Cottom When You Know Your Hour Will Come and It’s Tomorrow OfficeConduct a final but cursory audit of the stationery cupboard. Ignore the tumble of staplers and erasers, the torn box of fluted paperclips, the lined pads waiting for words. Take a last tea-break with Patsy from Payroll and thank her for three decades…
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D. Kotsiopolous, Naked
Dorian Kotsiopolous Naked After my mother-in-law lost her gripin the bathtub, after the surgery to patch her fractured hip, after we moved her to the Copley nursing facility, suddenly, she loved me. She forgot that I was not of her village or religion, that I breastfed her grandchildren. She’d kick her husband out of her…
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R. Turner, Mirror
Robin Turner Mirror a golden shovel after Stevie Nicks Ohthe sound any mirrormakes. Mother’s face inmy own now, thesame clouds crowd my skymind soft with blue grey. And whatof all my impossible hungers. My mouth ismoon-round, open, still speaking what I know of love. Note: Line from “Landslide” Robin Turner’s poems, prose poems, and flash…
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A. Green, Spider Plants
Aimee Green Spider Plants In the upstairs bathroom, on the sill,is the mother. Graceful, a spillof green; leaves and stems and growth. Her children,collected by her side, pushing outwards:limbs floundering and searchingfor space to root and be.Clinging to her sleeves, protected –or protecting? She blooms, creates them allfor herself – an abundance – some so…