My Lot

Across the street most mornings the field’s far patch looks shorn The light has a brilliant edge that evens across the grass But it’s not cut, really This morning though the whole of it is brown with billets and I remember I lost you I took the blade of my crazy and cut us down… More

Our Books, Our Books

The question is whether to quell this profligate book writing. Everyone’s “putting out” books. We pulp our words before pouring them right back in. How many times can we fold the same bone? Dad used to fill our slack with dumb conundrums. He said: Would you rather empty industrial grease traps for a living or… More

Ode to the Grandiose

Martha Serpas The time change had me up at dawn, which ordinarily wouldn’t happen. The orchard was still soggy, the elk had already been through, leaving their little Milk Duds. I missed out on the bears as well, which you’d think would have depressed me, considering I was up before the bewildering light. There were… More

Weight

Ashleigh Eisinger Jessie stands before me, a circus mirror image of the woman I married ten years earlier. Slight and shriveled, the sight of her furthers my longing for the plump blonde that used to laugh with me, that same woman who would not hesitate to shear off her top and slacks before crawling into… More