by Lynn Domina
The orderly aisle: fettuccini, fusilli, rigatoni,
round, folded orecchietti, edible ears;
cappellini’s wispy strands, trumpets, wagon wheels, screws;
for white clam sauce,
I choose linguini.
by Kevin Prufer
That car was burning. Are there any questions? It rested on its roof, flipped. Are there any questions? The windshield had scattered its pointed little thoughts over the pavement. Hello?
by Susanne Antonetta
The problem of light is, what could it be? A wave? Or a particle? A shimmy, or a stick tracing o’s in the mud?
by Susan Okie
She’s back among us. Lately, I’ve seen her—
sailing her boat at low tide, pushing
her shopping cart at the market . . .
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