by Debra Monroe
Miss Staat, her kilt skirt, her beige purse. Her eyes, close up. There, I thought, in the hazel and gold. When I was little, my dad who was lonely would take me on walks in the woods. “What does this say to you?” he’d ask, pointing at a rock. I never got what I wanted. Miss Staat’s eyes said that. Besides, because she told me what to do, I didn’t. I moved to Eau Claire and got a job.
by William Olsen
Just short of danger the camcorder stops;
one van keeps plodding forth past the rain-beaten
Yield sign in the headlights, past Andover, Kansas, farm kids
stationary beside stationary pickups . . .
by Natasha Sajé
Sometimes you “hrmph”
when I let a chance slip
or you pinch my hand
to make me take out commas.
by Jessica Greenbaum
When I was in college I had a worldly friend (I will call her M)—a Texan fifteen years my senior who was constantly frustrated by my naiveté. When we met, I would map out my romantic conundrum-of-the-month, a situation that only an Einstein of relationships could resolve. Hardly would I finish before, with the speed of a Cray computer, a look of this-is-all-too-obvious would come over her face. She had the same response to my nonromantic dilemmas . . .
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