by Ethan Zaborowski They had discerned a method of swimming past the cages long ago, but this season some entered them at will. Not one knew that the cages led to land, to the hands of men, to commerce, to the mouth—and besides, they figured without words, now was the moment to think a way…
Category: 2024
Protected: Unshed Tears
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Sudden Rain
by Diane Funston The once-clear night changesslides into mista lacy lingeriegauzy coveringover full stars Air is still as inhaled breathholds promisesgetting heavywith chilland need Full moon shylydrapes velvet cloudsover her breaststhen unashamed moisturemakes sidewalks glisten About the Author: Diane Funston, recent Poet-in-Residence for Yuba Sutter Arts and Culture for two years, created online “Poetry Square”…
Protected: When I Left Academia
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When a Woman
by Fabrice Poussin The days on the beach resonate stilland I am transported to the fiery sandsof a riviera made of near accurate imitationswaiting for the sun to etch a new hue upon my skin. Still a child I threw this awkward shell into the saltthick waters that took me away to the horizonenveloped me…
What Is Wanted
by James Engelhardt Dixit, Jean-Louis Roubira Libellud, 2008 I am a sculptor of clouds.I am a king becoming his own statue,forming bone into stoneand dissolving both again.My only gold is a ringsliding over a tight braid. I climb spiral stairs that rise and rise,until I face a field of sunflowers.I am covered in Post-its.I am…
It is Important to Befriend Other Beings
by Margaret McGowan In the back of the pantryI encountered a lonelysugar cube. Its shoulderssagged. There were tears.There were pleas. Pleasetake me. So I put itin my coffee, hearda sigh of satisfactionas it dove in. It is important to befriendother beings. Eve kissed a snakebecause it was sad.It gave her an appleto seal their friendship.Snakes…
street dreams
by Joe Farina does a street have a memory,beneath its many coatsdoes it remember every soul,who walked upon itdoes it long for a return,to cobblestones and carriagesor quicken to the thunderof street cars on silver tracksdrugged by combustion enginesdoes it remember being fashionedby the din of picks and shovelswielded by strange speaking labourersuntil it gleamed,…
Why Don’t You Talk About It?
by Babak Movahed Why don’t you talk about it? There’s not much to talk about. My childhood was mostly normal, certainly not traumatic. Struggle is an inevitability of upbringing. We’re not made to perfection, some divine replica of God’s image. No. Flaws are woven in the fabric of who we are. Fathers and sons, cut…
Protected: Attached
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