by MEH Say James Baldwin was right and white christians only wage a dispassioned war against this nation’s original sin. hands washed in...

by Hunter Hodkinson He buries his wounded fangs deep into my chest and with a hesitant yank rips my still beating heart from me. I bleed...

by William Ingogly At the hard line where the trees begin one darkness opens into another. The memory of fire illumines the underbrush...

by Janice L. Freytag I watch the sparrows so many this year play in the lady’s thumb weeds, flitting up to land on the pink florets,...

by Paul Ilechko Curled and crumbled in upon as bee stung as lips turning from yellow beneath the variegated purples that still hold...

by Larry Pike Security camera footage remained unclear despite the techs’ attempts to enhance it. Did Eve hesitate before she relented...

by Janice L. Freytag Maybe birds have their own tales of where they come from, made in the image of the Holy Hoverer who brooded and...

by Karen Bjork Kubin So says the sign—the warning kind— on a lonely road in New Mexico. So much may. May exist. May blow night free of...

by Christine Valters Paintner She escapes her father’s hungry grasp and gaze, walks days under sapphire sky, sun a squeezed out orange,...

by Seth Jani After a small certainty there is always the hunger come back up, like a prayer, from the dark body, filling the world with...

by Mark C. Watney The heavens blazon    God’s beauty And his hand-work[1]   un-ravels the sky Day cries out    wonders to day And night...

by Mark C. Watney Why the folk-rage[1] ? Why the slither-schemes? And why arise the earth-kings[2]   and elder-lings Against Him   and...

by Mark C. Watney Glad-gifted1 is the man who goes-not To the speaking-place of the sin-sated Who stands-not under their utterings...

by Ahrend Torrey Things take the time they take. Don’t worry. How many roads did St. Augustine follow before he became St. Augustine?...

by Frances Koziar She waited every Friday, face as lined as the old tracks, joints creaking like the wood of her bench Some spoke to her,...

by Christine Valters Paintner The old man hobbles down the road toward the monastery gate, rests on a roadside stone, hears clip-clopping...

by Amita Basu Outside, the midday sun shines white.  On the deep green lawn families are feasting. Porous soapstone, the temple smells...

by William Ingogly Wailing and sobs — a great stone grinds into place. The smell of cold stone, blood, sweat in the dark. A ticking...

By Seth Jani The body will disappear along with the amplitudes of desire, the dark cravings. But not the softness, the low pink hum, the...

by L.R. Berger From the beginning, the sea has been collaborating with the bluff, the sandy shore, the clattering stones, calling to us,...