by Melissa Ivy Weissberg
Lisa sits forward on the red naugahyde bench in the Hunan Wok Around the Clock, trying to pay attention to what Ethan is saying. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate, with the huge lighted fish tank behind him. In the dark restaurant, the tank seems the only source of light—an eerie, softly bubbling sun. Within, half a dozen tiny goldfish swim together in one little band while a foot-long silver dragon shops for his dinner.
by Judith Kitchen
George and I are lying. Our mother has come back from shopping and we tell her, with deep conviction, that we have each practiced half an hour on the piano. We need to do this in order to have time to do the things we think we need to do. Otherwise, we are in a cage called Sonatina. We lie only when it is necessary: just exactly where we were when we were where we were not supposed to be, that sort of lie. We hardly think of them as lies since they save us from the greater lie.
by Beth K. Roberts
All the brittle sun slamming through the auto
mobile’s invented and inflicted holes and rolled
down windows makes the eyes bug out like a
goofy joe, a personoid gagging on a quick
passage— . . .
by Jane Kenyon
In haste one evening while making dinner
I threw away a potato that was spoiled
on one end. The rest was redeemable.
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