Janet Locke, Two Poems

Attention
Janet Locke

The microwave clock
tells me I’m running late,
even though it runs slow.

So also say my cell phone,
my watch, and my wall clock.

A good friend was late for
everything, and she was perfect Continue reading “Janet Locke, Two Poems”

Tom Montag, Early Spring

Early Spring
Tom Montag

The wind has
let down the sky.

Small birds fly
into afternoon.

We are leaving
winter behind.

The birds know it.
We know it.

All the green things
have been told, though

not all of them
believe it yet. Continue reading “Tom Montag, Early Spring”

Michael T. Young, Evidence of Things Unseen

Evidence of Things Unseen
Michael T. Young

At first a scratch behind the wall.
Swelling pipes? Then
streamers of insulation
behind the toilet, frayed
carpet threads near baseboard molding.

Refresh the traps, clean out
the old peanut butter bait,
green and hard in the bowls.

Rats take days to grow comfortable
with changes in the room.
But on a rainy night,
when there’s little to feed on, a snap
in the dark. In the morning, I find
the limp, mud-colored
body of our suspicions.

There’s relief, an easing of defenses, Continue reading “Michael T. Young, Evidence of Things Unseen”

Steven Concert, Sunset at Times Square

Sunset At Times Square
A Villanelle
Steven Concert

Reflecting in the setting sun,
mannequins in quiet repose
while bodies crash in unison.

So hurriedly the people run
to destinations no one knows.
Reflecting in the setting sun,

where elegance is mixed with fun,
white limousines in lengthy rows
while bodies crash in unison.

Where gridlock fights the engine’s gun,
the burning fuel assaults the nose.
Reflecting in the setting sun,

the city rhythms beat as one.
Broadway shines, its radiance grows
while bodies crash in unison. Continue reading “Steven Concert, Sunset at Times Square”

Michelle Reale, Liberation Army

Liberation Army
Michelle Reale

Well, you know, it’s really been, you know, quite a trip for me.
—Patty Hearst

Everything pointed to survival. I was Patty Hearst with a loaded gun,
but really, more like meringue: all flourish with little substance.

The cinnamon I craved was dark as peat, still, I sprinkled it over everything.
My task was subjective. I tied the Gordian knot and focused on digestion.

The suppression of the lump in my throat was a collaborative effort.
My peripheral vision has failed me more than once, my words concise in a clutch. Continue reading “Michelle Reale, Liberation Army”

Mitch Goldwater, Two Poems

At the Now Vacant Lot on Bayard
Mitch Goldwater

I crouch to look at crocus blooms in random array
that trail along the sidewalk
and back across this urban square
of fresh-turned dirt and rusty debris.
A man stops his shuffle and stands above me. He has just returned
from the hospital, he says, a week after a transplant.
His skin is yellowed some.
He calls the purple heads
and golden eyes
on their stick-figure stems
Proud. Continue reading “Mitch Goldwater, Two Poems”

Abby Caplin, Two Poems

If
Abby Caplin

If, at the moment
of conception,
the matrix
of your corporeality
got plucked from the shelf
near the stove
of Consciousness,
and “you” were ladled
from the hot iron
rim of a dark-holed
kettle, lucky
if paired with soft
rolls and pats
of gold-foiled
buttery love,

while another “you,” by virtue
of spilling from the same
spoon (also into some horses, several
thousand rabbits, a trillion mosquitoes),
worked in a denim factory
in Bangladesh, your Continue reading “Abby Caplin, Two Poems”

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