by Daniel Rattelle Fishing-drunk in the Connecticut and no miraculous catch, you row for home. What short thrusts from stern to bow you...

by Laurie Klein In God’s backyard, roosting birds reawaken the old throes interred within us—personal heartland, tangled as any natural...

by Andrew J. Calis Greens and blues, the yellow light turns red spreading itself across the floor of the chapel. And warms through the...

by Mary Redman For N.M You were fourteen and sullen that day I picked you up from cross country practice. We bickered, and I couldn’t...

by Susan Francino I didn’t ask the caterpillar with its antennae tangled criss-cross in a cobweb if it wanted to be healed, but when I...

by Jenna K Funkhouser Wind ripples off the shaggy tops of mesquite trees and threads a ribbon of bending grass. The ground is stern and...

by Laura Klein . . . a long obedience in the same direction . . . —Friedrich Nietzche From the get go, two habitual waders rise—the...

by Violeta Garcia-Mendoza Maybe borage, rock rose; maybe wild carrot, gorse. In retrospect, daisy, poppy, marigold. Some miscalculation...

by Joshua Jones I heard you call my name. The wire of your voice pulled tight through the hallway. Expecting to find you marooned on the...

by Mary Redman (after Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins) We entered Yellowstone, and you gaped at charred tree trunks, where acre...

By Julie L. Moore Along the Rio Grande, in Ciudad Juárez,                                                        amid the high Chihuahuan...

By Laurie Klein Hovering clouds, more sting than mist, feel akin to ice, forced through a sieve, Salmon River below us, all teem and...

by JM Jordan Step out on the back porch of some getaway, some house nestled among low historic hills, where you have found yourself among...

by Brian Volck All I know is that it happens unexpectedly: how the forest trail, dim even under still leafless limbs, abruptly yields to...

by Cortney Davis –December 21, 2020 Tonight the air had the scent of earth, of dust, like old books in a sunlit library rarely used. We...

by Russell Rowland Candles will be there at my windows, as late as certain shepherds kept watch over their flocks by night. No angels...

by Jody Collins Dust echoes with his not-voice, the fingered sentence setting her free. Onlookers speechless, he bends again to slice...

by Naomi Bess Leimsider Two spikes a day; the heat slams through me. Doubles down, bends around, catches sudden and quick. Then nothing...

by Ken Meisel Some valentines have sentences in them first. That’s why everything I loved, in one moment, changed when you interrupted...

by Luci Shaw Between generous fields of ripe cranberries and the gleam of corn stubble we drive toward the base of Sumas Mountain, a...