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Savasana

By David Yezzi Poetry

This is your infinite being. Well, then, I am screwed, since the lozenge-cool om of the yogi misfires: not launching me like a sweat bead to float midair, but jangling my shorted nerves, which despite practice remain fidgety and ridiculously hidebound. And I think, is this it? Is this all I will glimpse in this…

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Bone Box

By Chris Forhan Poetry

I’m not dead so what do I know. It’s a box of bone I’m in. I work the crash site, push glass bits to the ditch with a broom. A swift hit of spring stuns me, but what’s that. My soul’s not cracked in half for its gold yet. It might be bone in there,…

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When the Dove Flew Overhead

By Amy Newman Poetry

———————————————–it marked the edge of a circle, split into the raked sky a seam I thought I saw, and given the right atmosphere, would travel through. Do I believe? The sky was widened slightly, as it widens at the tip of threatened churches, and the spire rises higher so the deity is nearer, so can…

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The Dawning

By Claire McGoff Poetry

I look out from a convenience-store doorway, just off a mid-summer Indiana exit, to where he stretches halfway under our truck— body flush against the days of oil and dust washed and unwashed away. He scans the underside to find a leak that trickles from beneath the axle and metal sheltering our children who stir…

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Working in Metal

By Alice Friman Poetry

Bernheim Forest Today’s forest floor, a terrazzo of copper leaf. The remaining scrub also copper: copper breath, penny breath, too faint to call it rustling. The mother trees of summer— those iron lungs—streamed oxygen from paps that swayed sweet rock-a-byes in green blouses. But now all is brittle air. Underfoot snap and crack. And all…

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At Land’s End

By Alice Friman Poetry

Cape Breton Facing the east was the cliff dropping sixty feet to the sea: a rock- face frozen in the slow-motion act of falling. A shirred schist. A Parkinson’s of stone—sheer and delicate as a chiton carved by a Greek. Sweeping back from the cliff, a slope of steep green. Empty but for a spattering…

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Thoughts from Port Royal, Kentucky

By Wilmer Mills Short Story

1. MY LIFE HAS GOTTEN so unpleasant that I have to write it down. I’ve learned that nothing makes a bit of sense to me unless I write about it, like I’m getting old and can’t remember things or can’t see straight until it’s all spelled out in front of me. But that’s ridiculous; I’m…

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The Jewel

By Richard Jones Poetry

I like this moment when there is nothing more I need to do, when I have emptied everything on the counter— eggs, bread, apples, and some chocolate I will give my children after homework— and I am free to study the checkout lady’s red face ever so slightly gasping for air, the quick hands of…

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Window

By Rod Jellema Poetry

He looks skyward and sees he forgot to snap off the lamp in his upstairs study. He’d call it aging, but aging is not, he tells himself, a downward slope. He hadn’t climbed to get here. His life isn’t a hill. It’s more like a long sleep, with tens of thousands of dreams, dreams of…

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Pears, Unstolen

By Betsy Sholl Poetry

I was stopped on the sidewalk by pears glowing on their tree like antique ornaments with flaking paint, a green metallic shimmer, hinting at yellow, mottled with a few flecks of red. As light flickered over them, they seemed to flutter like candles in the leaves. But no—they were pears, and probably hard, I told…

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