by Eamon Grennan
Open daisies in the grass, stars in the sky, that half-barrel
and the birds on it, or the silvery steely slate blue skin
of a mackerel: honeycomb of spider lines and diamonds
and inside in close-up, look, royal blue.
by Nick Halpern
Sarah had, three years ago, after a decade of marriage, abandoned Skip. He had not wanted children. Two years ago she’d married Ian Donegan, a man who did want, had always wanted children; last spring she and Ian had had a baby girl named Alice; a week and a half after Alice was born, Ian Donegan had died in a car crash. Skip had, almost immediately, reappeared and tried to persuade Sarah that she should move back in with him—she and the baby girl.
by Robert Wrigley
The hackberry tree, a static of twigs and branches
so densely woven sparrows went flitless there
and hopped instead, stob to stob, and disappeared
like names, dates, and faces in an ordinary mind.
by Tom Hunt
Seventeen months after my brother-in-law put a bullet through his brain, I found myself standing atop the highest cliff on the south coast of England, wondering what it would be like to jump. Inland, sheep and cows grazed on hills dotted yellow with cowslips. Crows speckled red slate cottage roofs and strips of plowed earth. Below, the channel sheared the last of the hills into jagged cliffs flecked with flint. A fierce wind blew from the west. It was the edge of England, but it felt like the edge of the world.
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