There is chatter in my mind along
my route although I drive alone.
I pass familiar landmarks
alone but in conversation
with the woman I was another
time on this road.
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Uncle Ray: Hannah Jane Weber
the adults speak of Uncle Ray’s life in long, mournful sentences
while I pluck tufts of feathers from the green brocade
and blow them like dandelion seeds
but my wishes do not bring him back
Lightning The Way: Betsy Martin
At the pond the wind
makes gray goosebumps
that skim the skin of the water.
Unripe Plums: A.E. Schulz
Not the black
of the ripe plums with the honey flesh that I loved
to eat in the summer, always remembering
how the juice could drip onto the pages of a book
if I wasn’t careful.
A Gift: Hannah Jane Weber
every so often
on early-morning walks
before the sun opens the day . . .
Butterfly Garden: Serena Eve Richardson
There are too many bodies
in the butterfly garden at the zoo
Humans outnumber the blooms
consume awe like nectar
Bridges: W. Arnold Yasinski
Bridges always lead to something
more. Looking over the rail high
above the water scares me, so I do it
until fear and reticence turn to thrill.
Your Wild Yes: Amanda Fall
“Words beat against my teeth. I cannot speak. Ache rises from my gut and forms a lump in my throat; I am wordless with need. I feel small, weak, not enough to face the rising tide . . .”
Close: Hannah Jane Weber
“a plastic wind bonnet secures her hair
she wears lightweight gloves
and a long trench coat
that flutters against scrunched pantyhose
her husband walks slowly behind her
one mottled hand carefully shadowing her left elbow”
Onion: Serena Eve Richardson
I shed layers, peel the tough
and the tender, all through the bulb
that makes up the meat of me