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What My Stepson Couldn’t Say

by Persis M. Karim I hate you because you aren’t my mother and even though you didn’t pretend to be her, you gave more of what I needed. And I hate you now because I don’t’ know how to hate her and you aren’t my mother.

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Evidence

by Chrissie Burke when I told him about how a single flower symbolizes a dead child’s existance he was flabbergasted and enraged because the substance supporting hope became evidence supporting hopelessness.

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What Does A Man Do

By Joseph Milosch As a young man in the seminary, Father Martin asked us to meditate on this question, What does a man do when he’s alone with his aloneness? At seventeen I felt so alone I was embarrassed to say: Because I can’t sleep, I walked through the maples every morning between 3:30 and […]

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Trapped Between Trellis and Solarium Glass

by Ed Coletti furious flapping frantic brown towhee sudoku solver without an eraser miniscule logic crazed exit seeker no rhyme or reason all bump and banging

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A Window

by Dretta Grace White A window Coffee Oranges and Blue china cups What is so simple We forget And yet Set a wing Against the finest azure blue And that is what there is

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Smog

by Darla Himeles I went out to buy smog today after two years away from my concrete Pacific, my crashing head smelling waves as I landed at the storefront where smog is sold as an eye shadow color. It is not the same as my heavy home horizons, but it is perfect.

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Stash’s Letter to His Lost Chiid ( Good Friday)

By Joseph Milosch In the last dream before waking I see the shadows of the spots of a snow leopard. Maybe I saw them during a medieval meditation. In any event the leopard and the lion drank from the pool of my heart as the mountains secreted echoes of the she wolf. How can I […]

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Concerto for Clarinet and Feet

by Joseph Milosch Inside the neck of the clarinet an army opposes breath. They ride miniature warhorses, Belgians, with saliva icicles hanging from their bits. Before the cavalry charges, they slap their chests with their ancestors’ guns. Beneath the keys of the clarinet exists a longing for the splendor of a frost- tipped rose, as […]

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Stash’s Letter to His Lost Child

by Joseph Milosch When I was in the army, I met a woman and went A.W.O.L. My friends found me. It wasn’t hard. I was drinking. It could of been that I was in the same bar that they left me in. It could of been that I was at her home. They found me […]

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Only During the Harvest Moon

By Joseph Milosch Only during the harvest moon does light come to this city. High tension wires sing a cable stretching song as ghosts moan because the seeds between their bones are swelling. When the sky breaks into dawn, the moon’s light flows out of itself like breath blowing out of a mouth, which is […]

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And there was light

by Kristina Baer Urgent as intuition, brief as a sigh, it leaps across the fallow shadow field of the still-forming universe from its birthplace in the deep still blue of heaven’s vault: Divine thought into light.

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Sunday at the Brighton Loop

by Neal Whitman There was sleet Saturday. Summer was not over. Autumn had not turned. Ess curves take us to 8730 feet. Aspens still green are framed in white. We walk the snow-packed path that encircles Silver Lake at the Brighton Loop. At the observation deck a female mallard paddles by and leaves white tail […]

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Summer Haiku 2014

by Neal Whitman The last day of spring and suddenly it is the first day of summer. At least that is so in the Northern Hemisphere. Today the season turned at 3:51 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time. I slept through its tick of the clock. When do we end and where do we begin? When do […]

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From this Height

by Cameron Conaway From this height at Sabino the tips of cattails sway like humans dancing with the colorless waves of the wind.

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Quilt

by Mark Jackley For my daughter A few minutes of cartoons as we spoon soup, January dusk, perhaps are quilted like patchwork into something I will reach for in my last winter, when I am never warm. In that bare flat, reruns on TV, hands that cradled you will finger every seam. — Mark Jackley’s […]

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