Art by Sara Endalew
By Marcie Rendon ● 2019
Our ancestors dreamt your future The iron rail, Angus cows slumbering in shorn prairie The buffalo remembered only on the metal That buys and sells on the grain exchange There…
By M. Wright ● 2017
damp hours dried by coexistence these trumpet calls reverberate through century-old buildings but not everyone can follow the horns. so a few of us linger in the empty square, dry…
Art by Immanuel Bratzel
By Julia Klatt Singer ● 2017
about the man with the pear tree who lost his wife after fifty-six years of marriage and how he had that old gnarled tree in his backyard, and that that…
Art by Leann E. Johnson
By Donte Collins ● 2015
we were Ferris wheel watchers firefly fighters dollar store cap gun robbers cops and Sunday creased collars private school scholars giving the church basket the dollars our mothers slipped into our pockets seconds before.
Waitress walking across the bridge still smell like kitchen. Want to serve you my seven spice butter sauce blueberry eyes freshly baked buns grated parmesan hair.
Art by Chad Hambright
By J. Otis Powell‽ ● 2015
Her voice is deep water, Though she’s too shallow this year for ships, Her body more round than angular, When I ask her questions I get more, Answers than I know what to do with, She says her name in whispers
Grandma’s brown arms
wrapped around the world
and held it tight,
close to her bosom,
close to her heartbeat.
Grandma’s brown arms
knew just how tight
and when to let go.
Because the vistas end in arches that do not change And the grillwork of sails forecasts a season of palms The dove holds a steady hover over the crossroads of…
By Mike Hazard ● 2015
A wild-looking man I don’t know from Adam begged a ride from the PO to the Dorothy Day Center. He’s jazzed, jazzed about a Thanksgiving feast. With a shock of…
By Maryam Marne Zafar ● 2015
The steady drum beat. The high trilling voices. The whipping colors of the people. POW WOW! The soft stomping of moccasins upon the earth matching the shush-shush shuffle…
children burst from the earth right outside my door not waiting to be picked
It will leave nothing. Nothing. The future comes, ripping the asphalt up—black, jagged slabs.