by Michael Borich
I’m kneeling to the snap beans and snow peas and early
Girls whose pale breasts swell behind their foliage,
And I bless the firm stalks and flowering roots, and I
Curse the eyeless borers and nits and leaf rot and airborne
Plagues and moles, those tunneling, underground rats . . .
by Ray Hedin
My father’s bowling trophies sit on a shelf in my garage, undusted, splayed in all directions, next to bottles of Miracle-Gro and Weed-B-Gon. They sketch out a good deal of my father’s suburban, parish-league bowling career: Hi Series, Kuples Klub, 1953–54, G. Hedin, 648; Kuples Klub, 1968–69, High Game (unspecified); Kuples Klub, 1st Place, 1980–81, G. Hedin, League Champion, St. Petronille, 1981–82; League Champion (plaque missing).
by John Leary
Wilson and Edie’s baby arrived one sunny morning in June. It kicked the front door with its foot, as the doorbell was beyond a baby’s reach. “Hi,” Wilson said. “You must be our new baby.”
The baby held two small suitcases. “Can you give me a hand with these?” it said. “They must weigh a ton.”
by Lynne McMahon
in Missouri, a burr oak, the oxidized plaque
faintly states, which so dominates the landscape
he calls it Wordsworth . . .
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