C. L. Bledsoe, Winter 2017

The Men in the White Vans
C. L. Bledsoe

They wake earlier than some go to bed,
the men with hard hands, and every one
of them smiles when he sees my toddler
daughter flounce by. Breakfast is quick
and on the way because there’s no food
in the house, or maybe no peace, and sugar
is cheap. I see them when I leave in the smoky
dark, lining the parking lot, an obstacle course
of battered whaling ships covered with ladders,
poles that resemble harpoons, tools. I don’t
know what they do, but it’s probably Continue reading “C. L. Bledsoe, Winter 2017” →

February 7, 2017 1

Steve Klepetar, Winter 2017

Two Poems by Steve Klepetar

Night Ride, NYC
Steve Klepetar

I was seven or eight, riding at night in someone’s car
over a bridge strung with lights,
the Whitestone or Throgs Neck, and we seemed
to be standing still
as the bridge slid past, pillar after pillar,
until my eyes blurred. My identity seemed to slip away

and I repeated my name to myself, silently, over
and over, until those words
meant nothing. Night loomed above, and lights Continue reading “Steve Klepetar, Winter 2017” →

February 4, 2017 1

Jerry Wemple, Winter 2017

Ark Drives Into the Night
Jerry Wemple

A big rig is coming up fast. Its lights
go from far to closer to close. Barely
keeping it between the white lines, Ark welcomes
distraction. One hundred miles—maybe less—but
one hundred is a good number and when
more turns out to be less, then less is better,
a boost. State line sign, then gone. The big rig
that was riding his donkey faded off on
the hill climb. Lights in the distance: York.
Then Camp Hill. Might go East Shore all the way
in daylight, but too many hills and curves, woods, Continue reading “Jerry Wemple, Winter 2017” →

February 2, 2017 2

Craig Steele, Summer 2016

Final Cruise
Craig Steele

Can ye fathom the ocean, dark and deep,
where the mighty waves and the grandeur sweep?
― Fanny Crosby

When my days become an afterglow, and I a memory,
scatter my ashes upon those wind-teased waves

that raise the fiery, sunrise tides beyond the nearest
far horizon. I’ll be a shell returning to the sea,

cruising its antique surface where, below me, Continue reading “Craig Steele, Summer 2016” →

July 14, 2016 0

Daryl Sznyter, Summer 2016

How to Fall Asleep and Never Wake Up
Daryl Sznyter

The year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.

That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn’t eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.

That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the only person I actually spoke to. The cassette that held my entire life was broken. No – not broken – lost. Her sister ran naked through the street a few days later after ingesting a certain fungus at her school’s homecoming dance. Continue reading “Daryl Sznyter, Summer 2016” →