Sharon Perkins Ackerman holds an M.Ed from the University of Virginia. Her poems have appeared in the Southern Humanities Review, Atlanta Review, Appalachian Places, Kestrel, Meridian, Broad River Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Salvation South, and others. Her second poetry collection “A Legacy of Birds” is available on Amazon and her third collection “Sweeping the Porch”(Pine Row Press) will be published early 2026.
Imagine being told at your annual physical that you have a cancerous spot on your right lung. Then, in a follow-up that you have a year left to live. One year. That’s all. Imagine having to squeeze all your dreams and plans for the future onto the pages of a single wall calendar. That is what happened to Dawn West, who is still alive today, twenty-six years after that terminal diagnosis. Dawn and I had been dating for a month when she received the devastating news. After her first diagnosis, we visited other doctors for … Continue reading Beating a Death Sentence by Bill Glose→
Our touring barge plows south through Mekong waters soon to arrive in the Delta. It’s been years, yet the names of these places are still familiar. Glossary of napalm and agent orange, of families fleeing, of death. I stand on deck and see a peaceful land, little battered boats, hut homes, rice-carrying hoys, their painted eyes alert for evil spirits. Everywhere in the brown current, islands of hyacinths float — invasive spread of jade leaves, plum blooms and unseen roots that hang in the water and thrive. Close by a flat boat drifts, nets piled … Continue reading Unseen Roots by Martha Snell→
I don’t blame my body for its language, for keeping its sacredness secure with words, its spleen tagging towards holiness and eternity, since I don’t seem to understand its nature, or why it mistakes my joys for sorrow, my pains for happiness, my tedium for freedom. I have kept the momentum of my dreams, but my body betrays me each time I reach out to have a sensible conversation about our future. It’s not too hard to make up with your enemies, except that sometimes they open the wounds from which you struggled to escape … Continue reading The Language of My Body by Chibuike Ukah→
I, who have never known love like this for my kinfolk in a burning world I’m tired of loneliness rewiring this brain, tired of wasting time waiting for the skies to clear, waiting for a turn, waiting for the urge to pass. Here, let me share this bread I baked, this salt, this god only a body can understand, I love you, here is a cup of tea, your coffee with maple syrup, the way you like it I love you, I made you soup, hungry for a kind of closeness like wilderness of hair … Continue reading This year is forecast four winters and I can’t save the burning world by Andreea Ceplinschi→
…………. ………To commemorate the victims of the Khmer Rouge we faced a large number of classrooms the bird outside faced the trees, unvoiced. the winter’s soldier burns the classroom changing our dream into a brimstone lake. the bird still like stone, still watching blood on her face. she wears the blade of clothes. the bird lives here, dozing, but full of blood sense in its eyes. we, trapped here. once the classroom, the way turns to Pol … Continue reading The Bird Lives Here to Wait by Yucheng Tao→
Sukey Gap Graveyard The road here is pocked with holes, graves strung mostly in mistflower or phlox, apt to spread airy trails. Not a place for plastic lilies who squall into the quiet, but moss with enough give to muffle the whole of your existence, let a mythology larger than your own encompass the knee, the folded hands, words dampening what’s left of sunken or toppled names. One stone says Perninia, my third great grandmother, who holds open the iron gate then closes it behind me, and flies softly into the trees. She sings from … Continue reading Mind the Gap by Sharon Perkins Ackerman→
My favorite television cowboy was the Lone Ranger because he didn’t sing, he didn’t kill Indians for the fun of it, and he wasn’t even a cowboy. He was a hero with an Indian for a sidekick. His horse was named Silver. It was a white horse, which is the best kind of horse for a hero because you can always see him coming. His bullets were made of silver. They were very expensive. This meant he couldn’t waste them. This meant he was a damn good shot. His black mask was the stark geometry … Continue reading The Lone Ranger Alone by J.R. Solonche→
I thought it was all behind me remission said my doctor now only periodic PET scans to be sure only blood tests to double check numbers months of chemo, nausea and mouth sores left behind on a distant shore sailing easily on a salty breeze no worries weighing me down what I didn’t know is that remission means never really left behind cancer walking silently beside you like a shadow a part of your life forever like your best friend from first grade listen, can you hear the waves swooshing as you sail near the … Continue reading Left Behind by Claire Rubin Scott→
………………………………………………………….Tarsila do Amaral (Brazil, 1928) Since you last crossed the still, moonlit waters Waters grown moody for the fainting dawn Dawn advancing but for the last starlight Starlight gifts of spellbound magic for two Two, we knew, both full with reflected moods Moods long-expressed in your rhythmic cycles Cycles of your full light, waning for rest Rest like a new moon to relight our flame Flame of your crescent hung to leave hearts full Full moon, I was drawn to your drifting charm Charm found in your safe and secret refuge Refuge, never forgotten, for … Continue reading The Moon by Kenneth Boyd→
Let me tell you uncomfortable I am with silence. I am handcuffed to a joke I can’t tell. Two crows are where my lungs should be. My exhales are the shape of birds. This is serious business. This is an average Tuesday. Finger in the light socket. Fork in the garbage disposal. Recycling bin blown over by the wind. The week’s detritus spread out for all the neighbors to see. I’m hungry but all my knives are too dull to cut anything. The voice coach said sing from your diaphragm. Someday I’ll have an office … Continue reading Same River, Different Day by Patrick Meeds→
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