by Margaret Gibson
Because we live in a country where no one I know
sings to God in the streets,
I’m given to wandering past margins of fern and wild honeysuckle, . . .
by Martha Zweig
Displayed under a cold washcloth, mother would moan,
“My head is worse. My head
is worse than a breadbox.
It is worse
than brussels sprouts, & worse
than the head of God, bulging with wars.”
by Christopher Chambers
Carl, under his car on a Saturday morning, stares at the bell housing of the automatic transmission that has settled heavily onto the left side of his chest, and he thinks about the conversation he had with his wife this morning. The argument was not unusual.
by Paul Zimmer
When America entered World War II, I was seven years old. My mother’s parents were French and Belgian immigrants, and my father was of German ancestry, but they did not clash over the war. Mostly we worried that it might come to America, to our town of many factories. My father was in the Civil Defense Corps and took a red-filtered flashlight out into the practice blackouts while we sat in our darkened basement and mother taught us French songs—“Frère Jacques” and “Alouette.”
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