by Linda Pastan
On the small, imaginary
I place on one side
all the scraps memory
has left me, as if I could make
a meal of them . . .
by Thomas Rabbitt
A madman has threatened my life. I mean
An insane human being, adult, male,
Has expressed his need to terminate me.
I carry a pistol. Like an itch. Strange
How desire turns itself over. It’s all
I can do to keep from tracking him down.
by David Wojahn
In Bruegel’s Hive Keepers, we watch as danger
twists their every movement into gestures
blundering and graceless, elaborate as art . . .
by Leslie Pietrzyk
Cold. Always cold pressing these bones, settling in, waiting. Waiting. Tituba will die if she stay, don’t get back. Die in this cold new land crowded with too many pale men. Wait till spring to drop her under, keep her body in a barn somewhere with the horses till the ground soft again. Then Tituba never get back, never get warm, not if she left behind in this cold dirt. Seen it happen. Dropped in the dirt like a forgotten seed, dropped where the sun never go. Only shadow. Shadow make it colder.
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