by Sherod Santos
Open window; eucalyptus scent; the ever-
slightly slackening heat. Given the way the day
has gone, the middle-aged woman undressing
for bed has waited awhile to turn off the lamp
in the guest bedroom, which, she’s reminded,
had once been the room she’d shared with her sister.
by Eric Ormsby
My quarrel with your quorum, Monsignor
Flamingo, is that you scant the rubicund
in favor of a fatal petal
tint. I would rather bask
in riots of the roseate . . .
by Dara Wier
He’s shocked at first, embarrassed,
but he quickly recovers in a fit of giggles
and then he confesses.
Dr. Harsh just hates poetry,
“The Emperor of Ice Cream,” especially.
by Alison Baker
Bert listened with growing despair to the frantic reports on the famine. Thousands of people were dying and Bert was doing nothing about it. In his youth that had been a valid topic for debate: should one feel guilty for doing nothing about something that one can do nothing about? But that was before the helplessness of maturity had set in; that was before Bert and his friends had discovered that no matter how vast their intelligence, how good their grades, how physically attractive they were, they lacked the power to effect any change in human nature.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections