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”

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Devon Balwit, Pulling Toward Home

Pulling Towards Home
Devon Balwit

The east wind sends my poncho swooping
overhead,

startling the dog, already jittery from the rain-streaked
headlights

and the runners, who appear and recede as from another
dimension.

A phalanx of geese wheels above, considering Continue reading “Devon Balwit, Pulling Toward Home”

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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