poetry

The Oven Clock Says 4:44

By

quick listen to the tick of ittonight not quitetomorrow yet my friendthe time will comewhen end is endedthe light on the blackand white linoleumno longer shineswhen I am died

Kabul

By

John Sierpinski

I roll awake in the half moon-shaped ditch. "Where the hell are my Kools, my Canadian Mist, the ice for Godsakes, yes, even my Blackberry?"

Poetry

Being Carbon-based Creatures

By

Kathleen Dale

Molecules of our bodies only lightlybind, allow for life by not releasing,in their coupling, enough heat to burnthemselves to ashes, allow for death by easilylosing interest, and unlinking.

Poetry

The Only Tavern in Hyde, Wisconsin

By

Austin Smith

When I walked into the forestof camouflage, faces turned,gleaming through the leaveslike tin plates hungamongst trees for targets.

Poetry

The Third Wish Always Taking the Form of a Retraction

By

Christie Taylor

Sometime between the hen and the singing harp, Jack's mother changes hermind. Yes, the gold eggs glitter in the morning, yes, she eats off coins the size of saucers, yes, she knows tomorrow he will bring another wonder down the

Summer Lunch

By

Anjie Kokan

Down at the Pizza Factory you can get a mini pizza for a buck plus a quarter for each topping.

Ground Cherries

By

Maryann Hurtt

I sit at her table and eat ground cherries she peels their lantern paper skin makes little stacks of pale orange balls

Departing is Such Sweet Sorrow

By

Mark Kliewer

In the parking lot after Romeo and Juliet have killed themselves for love, after the Capulets and Montagues have renounced enmity, we sit stunned in our cars by a greatness of love and loss

Birds of Wisconsin

By

John Lehman

Since the beginning of time it seems poets have been preoccupied with birds. Wordsworth's cuckoo and Keats' nightingale come immediately to mind. As does Wallace Stevens' blackbird (and the thirteen ways of looking at it).

Poetry

The Washer's Bone Whiteness Laid Bare

By

Michael Kriesel

Kitchen necromancer, mom unburiesthe washer each week from its shallow graveof crochet magazines, Wonder Bread bagsof phone bills, coupons clipped and saved towardssome unexpired future where Point Beer

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poetry