Poetry

by Bryan Franco After he cut off a charred edge of steak: before he bit the first bite, he impaled the steak with a steak knife, which stood at a perfect ninety-degree angle perpendicular to the steak. He imagined himself a Viking on a pillage. The steak was a sentry to a castle he breached. The knife was a sword that had last belonged to his great-uncle. He swiped the sliver of charred meat into au jus pooling in the plate then dipped it into mashed potatoes peppered with bl

by Stephen Siciliano Apricot blossom and Spicy Rose Mint champagne through Your heart It flows. Coffee smoke comes a whisperin’ up. Let me drink from that Lovin’ Cup. Been Skipping down a Peppermint Mile waitin’ on your Vanilla Smile. Keepin’ an eye on your Butterscotch Clock touchin’ my lips to a Candy Apple Rock. Darlin' let me taste some more of them flavors you keep in that Sensations Store That Hickory Whiskey over Black Cherry Ice Chocolate Raisins and Cinnamon Rice Str

by Donna Faulkner Roast beef in dripping. Baby peas backstroke in a gravy moat,                    avalanche        down      mash spud mountain. Yorkshire puddings - play fat aristocrat.       Dinner at Nans chef's kiss.

by Irene Cunningham the woman I saw within her had pale blue hair with electric highlights. She could nestle in cloud under the moon… in fact it appeared sometimes there were great grey wings puffing around her, camouflaging her nakedness. No one knows what she got up to on those nights amongst rooftops and spires, and mornings after the short disappearances, she’d sit facing walls, tail wrapped around her paws probably re-living reckless raving—I should’ve called her Harpy.

by Emma Woodard It was growing pains, they said. Recess drama. The ache of new schools. Just puberty. You’re thirteen. It was homework. Stress. Nerves. The looming specter of SATs. It was the fourth thin envelope of rejection, the lost title of Valedictorian, the weight of a cap and gown. It was female issues, your weight, your attitude, your whirling hormones! It’s your period. A side effect of the medication, or perhaps not serious at all. Are you sure it’s not just mental?

by Ken Gosse Since Tarot cards tell what must be— they’re que será, not fancy free— my aces-over-eights quandary foretold someone was watching me. I didn’t bet my life on them and had no time to haw or hem. The villain, anxious to condemn, ignored my aphoristic gem. Afraid those words might be my last, perhaps I spoke a bit too fast. The dealer, knowing, thought I sassed when I said, “Think I’ll fold,” then passed. Indeed, I passed (not just a swoon) upon that August afternoo