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.
by Edison JenningsSee Naples and die, Johann Goethe wrote, / the deep-dish bay, smoke plumed Vesuvius, / the castle and the terraced hills
You know Frida Kahlo had one wide eyebrow / and a mustache, right? They helped define her beauty.
My grandparents know your / grandparents, that’s the size / of the town we were born / to work with.
You ask me, then / space out as I explain / the long & short / of the vowel “I.”
by Adam McCullochWhere do I start? / This is very bad. / I don’t have time for this. I am not a professional protester!
by Phil BerryThere’s a silver balloon / Over a post by the road / Where all must pause.
We are trespassers, all of us tourists / seeking out this almost ghost town
by Juleus GhuntaThe night she tried to beat me, I slept on the veranda / of the shop in the square.
Bleak, that’s a given. No sun for / days. The spring doesn’t arrive / soon enough.
It’s warm. Always / warm with some war starting up, more / children to raise.