At the EdgeLinda Pastan we are having tea at the edge of the abyss . . . RAYMOND FARINAIt's a long way downto darkness and fireand the wings o...
Easter MorningJean Nordhaus Driving through the gorge to Santa FeChrist is risen,I hear myself say, as the roadbreaks out of the gorgeonto floodplai...
ParableSandra BeasleyWorries come to a man and a woman.Small ones, light in the hand.The man decides to swallow his worries,hiding them deep within hi...
Even the Ohio Can ChangeRick CampbellThe river I grew up on was rankwith oil. Shoreline stonesgleamed slick-blue and nothingin the river was worth a s...
Adam Home from the WarsSean BishopYes, when the orchard's dolled up in pastelsand the finches scrawl cursive across the skyand the big moon sags l...
The Name of the Island Was MarriageBruce BeasleyIThe name of the island was Island and the name of the Fridaywas Good. Sunflower roots lay smoked on a...
The MeetingAlfred CornRekindled consciousness, abrupt as a slapThat makes identity slot in, its clipCoinciding with that signatureStride acquired roug...
MidnightNiall CampbellMy heart had been repeating oh heart, poor heartall evening. And all because I'd held my child,oh heart, and found that age ...
The WineMichael MetivierWhen the townspeoplegave the teenaged Buddhaa glass of wineso delicious he grewto an unthinkable sizeand froze into a blue sta...
StoryFrances LevistonUnder what tree, in what part of the forest, beside which branchof the leaf-obstructed stream, in sun or in rain,concreted into w...