Street of My Life Street of my life, I have left you and I have returned, wandering nights in your renovated future, The deed has passed into my keeping, and the dead, ever gracious, have agreed, to pretend they have never left. Short, unexceptional street, lined on both sides with two-story brick houses, Each with its painted stoop, pouring bruised-legged children down the stone steps, With its flower pots, its wooden bench and iron-fenced “garden,” large enough for a single flowering tree a row of crunchy-leafed bushes, And the last house with its Florsheim … Continue reading Honey and Six Poems by Sharon Leiter →
Smoke —translated from Theophile Gautier’s Emaux et Cemées, 1852-1872 Down there, under sheltering trees: A hunchbacked hovel of the poor— Walls crumbling; roof down on its knees. Moss blots the threshold of the door. The window’s shutter is its mouth. But like a tepid winter breath Exhaled from some living mouth, This hovel shows it’s far from death. It stands there shabby, closed-in, shut. But smoke is spiralling. A corkscrew’s Thin blue thread curls from that hut: Its soul, which carries God the news. Fumée Original French Là-bas, sous les arbres s’abrite … Continue reading Smoke by Len Krisak →
“Do you know how fast you were going?” Not fast enough, you don’t reply. You have somewhere to be, and you can’t get there quickly enough. It’s not your own bed (that’s where you just came from) and it’s not her bed (that’s where you won’t be coming again, anytime soon); it’s the house you are usually driving away from at this hour, hoping to find the way home through half-shut eyes. You’ve seen this little piggy before, you think, as he holds his flashlight expectantly in your face. And not just in those recurring … Continue reading Come and Get My Gun by Sean G. Murphy →
August 2012 Paris is empty. There’s no one left except the tourists who planned poorly, or cheaply. All the Parisians and even the other expats are in the south, or in Spain, or on the Côte. Everything’s closed; not one event scheduled until September. Even the blogs and guidebook sites I shoot for are quiet this time of year. I’ve taken every possible photo of Paris. There’s not much to do except walk around and look at shuttered doors. I’m the only person I know who has enough money to live in Paris, but not … Continue reading The Ones Who Stay by Jenna-Marie Warnecke →
On the day I found out that I was pregnant I went to a bar and drank heavily with my boyfriend. It was early afternoon and I had a spicy bloody Mary and followed it up with a few craft beers. He drank the same. We stretched our arms across the table and held hands, like newlyweds. The word shot-gun came up. We certainly weren’t getting married, not that we never would. We’d decided before my pregnancy test appointment at the clinic — I didn’t want to pee on a store-bought stick, that we weren’t … Continue reading No Matter What by Tracey Levine →
Connecticut artist Suzanne Heilmann explores the color white with her art installations. “I think of babies being born, all new and pristine clean. Purity and innocence are represented in a conscious and simplistic way. White is cold too, and the whole death thing. I have to be very careful to give it balance so it won’t be a negative. Or sad.”
I’ve always known that what I love can disappear. When I was three, I fell asleep on the subway, head on my father’s lap, my stuffed green bunny clutched in my arms. One instant I slept; the next, Daddy roused me and rushed us off the train. Standing on the platform, I remembered Bunny. “He’s on the train!” I screamed. But the doors had slammed shut, the train roared and screeched into its tunnel, drowning my cries. Perhaps this was when I learned that a dark, howling void waited to carry away what I loved. … Continue reading St. Anthony of Poughkeepsie by Cora Schenberg →
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