When the synagogue told me / we’d be going to the duck pond to / cast away our sins / I thought, that’s not fair to the ducks.
That time after the Golden Hour / when the sky glows one slow chalk streak, / the horizon like flesh / pressed to a lightbulb, / I said, come with me.
I don’t even know how you got published. / Of all writers in the world, you’re the worst.
by Ken MassicotteI wasn’t frightened by damnation, preferred / Merry Company in a Pergola, / Jan Steen’s tavern maid with the cider pot
all my dreams / cost more than / whatever money / i ever had in my / life
How do you feel / when driving past / the penitentiary on a winter night
God may have created / the universe and all therein / But he never made any money off it
Fish fall from the sky / in silvery hooks / on a subduction shore / where boats beat at dusk with hunting
by Jack D. HarveyYes, that is me / on my pet pony / only two and a half years old.
When the beam snapped, / the rope that clung to my life slipped. / The roof caved in as / I saw the floorboards part, / revealing the Cuyahoga gushing below.
When my first wife and I / were new to each other, / we moved into a cinderblock apartment
I’m the Mad Sestina King. / Sestinas haunt me twenty-four hours a day. / People laugh, claim I’m a fool.
by Tammy OberhausenTuning up, a chord, a riff, / my grandfather plays / Freight Train, finger-thumb picking style, / and we three girls are on our feet.
She carries his taco tray, and folds up / his walker, leans it against the faux-brick / wall.