Animal Poems

Advice from a Bat Dress your wounds with cobwebs  because a pound of flesh  can only sop so much blood.  When you cannot name the man  who clots the moon’s wax light,  cower in the thumb of a glove. Lie in the grass, tell an untruth.  If a man quiets your moonshine, call him a … Read More

The Good Catholic

A Short Story by Kyle Taylor Timothy was not a good Catholic, but despite this, the parish priest still cradled the phone and prepared to visit the hospital after the call came.  Father Brennan kept turning the idea of a good Catholic over in his mind, trying to stretch the idea in some direction that … Read More

The Greengrocer’s Apostrophe

A poem by Ezekiel Black When trash birds fly  in the face of clouds, when clouds collide, climb like pilgrims over mountains, there is only hush, a susurrus. Rain falls like linen. Even modest clouds weigh several tons; Even American crows know trigonometry. More of a magpie  than a greengrocer, I too want to nuzzle  the … Read More

Drumhead Court-Martial

Help me carry this poet back to his cave. He wore his dust jacket to the dinner party, and he, hot with infection, tried to smear  cold cream on his brain. One cannot pull his hair out at the salon and claim to be a molten bird.  There is a great difference between marble and … Read More

Card Games

A short story by Chris Negron Oscar wondered if that was someone else’s hand reaching out and turning over the next three cards. He squinted at the liver spots and wrinkled knuckles, the gnarled fingers that gripped the six of spades. Could this really be the hand Joanne once told him she loved, the one … Read More


by Dottie Blais SCENE 1: GEORGE sits on the couch watching TV.   He continuously clicks the remote control.  GLADYS is standing, one hand on hip, the other holding a cocktail. GLADYS George, you know that annoys me. GEORGE continues to click. GLADYS Can’t you take a break from that thing?  Get something to drink, fix … Read More

Poem with Glass Shards

A poem by Ezekiel Black If you replace my blood  with motor oil,  I would not run any better. You cannot measure horsepower by feet of intestines. No, I would separate  into bands of fluids, a mortal beaker of urine, oil, saliva, and when I spill,  I will gloss the puddle  in the gutter, my slick … Read More

If My Love Were in My Arms

An Excerpt from Richard Monaco’s Lost Years: The Quest for Avalon Western wind, when will thou blow, The small rain down can rain? Christ, if my love were in my arms And I in my bed again. What has gone before…. Gawain has been disfigured in battle and so never returned to his married Moorish lover, … Read More