Selfie with Nostalgia and Optimism by Lisa Summe

I fantasize, as we say goodnight
in your driveway, that we won’t
get used to anything, won’t take
each other’s company at breakfast
for granted, won’t become a pattern,
one that runs as regular
as the blood circulating our veins,
won’t become tallies in each other’s bedposts, Continue reading “Selfie with Nostalgia and Optimism by Lisa Summe”

2 Poems by Bailey Pittenger

Garlic Powder

Before the apocalypse, every man will passive aggressively talk to every woman who wouldn’t date him about Madame Bovary.

And every man will lose control of his bowels and slide in his own shit like a slug. Every man will wiggle and bend in either pain or constipation.

Before the apocalypse, every man will pray for a heaven. Every man will call to his dead mother for forgiveness.

And every man will lose his sight. Every man will evolve an acute sense of smell. Every man will look for his mother by following the scent of garlic powder. Continue reading “2 Poems by Bailey Pittenger”

Inside Jokes by Emily K. Michael

A long draped table hosts five blind guests, two microphones, one moderator:
a last supper strewn with free pencils, insufficient paper, and clear water glasses.

In reaching for the only microphone that still works my partner threatens
to send his decorous goblet tinkling to the floor – its thousand shards

a dark promise for the paws of our assembled guide dogs. A second swipe
for the mic brings the glass an inch from peril, so he hands it to me. Continue reading “Inside Jokes by Emily K. Michael”

2 Poems by Monica Wendel

English Kills

I’ve been singing in a dead language
about the sun. The children know
it can come back to life; just ask the Israelis

who made up words they couldn’t find
in the Torah—t-shirt, rainbow.

But rainbow must have been there.
Maybe I’m remembering this wrong.
In my dream I was on a farm

presenting a PowerPoint.
One slide was a picture of a mother

kneeling by her child, the other a backyard
abutting the Newton Creek. In real life one of
its branches is called English Kills. Continue reading “2 Poems by Monica Wendel”