Watson and the Shark

Anney E.J. Ryan How many times did I think: I don’t love him And wonder what I was doing Holding his hand at the MFA in Boston Looking at Watson and the Shark? How many times did he say, “It’s my favorite”? How many times did he tell me why? It was the shark: How… More

Concealment

Gayle Elen Harvey is not all. Rain begins falling like a stray thought. It is everywhere at once. Without prayer, without pause, there is hunger for the dark side, a colder time. Boundaries shift. Small boats remain deeply grounded. Thin with static, the sky collapses, dropping easily through the burnt-out trees, or is it morning,… More

Freshman

Anney E.J. Ryan Today felt unbreakable. It was the first time I Stole something (bagel), Smoked a cigarette (menthol), Drank a beer (lager), Tripped a teacher (Latin), Kissed someone I shouldn’t (Her). Tonight feels warm under the bed. It is the first time I Study the floor (Dad’s), The rocker marks (Dad’s), The ragged carpet… More

We Can Breathe With Ease

Neil McCarthy We can breathe with ease poetry into the sundry shades of red burning in the skies over Gaza, perhaps likening them to a pomegranate ripped open. Ripe to write, I can’t. I can only watch as you sleep, Inma, naked and foetal as you face the window. And this womb of Connemara sky… More

Back to School

Tara Deal Between learning Japanese and planning this evening’s dinner the day does not slip away but congeals like conger eel in quiet jelly, what we could never have here, or that plum-cloudy candy with gold leaves, scattered, sticky in small hands waving when the children rush outside, too fast, and all one can ask… More

The Palm of the Paw

Peter Jay Shippy Before we boarded the train Father buried our bobbed tails And showed us how to pull dogskin Over our long ears. The countryside Licked our window like tongues, swollen With raw honey and beer. At dawn The conductor brought eReaders And flowers, tea and hot cross buns. I still recall the vase… More

Stream of Consciousness

Tara Deal The drip from the ceiling, a small thing, stain in the evening, not worth fixing, even, almost not worth mentioning now that some love has gone a little brown around the edges like a rusty wrought iron gate from one of the old hotels when those were the days, with sparkling fountains in… More