Category: Pieces

The Book of Summer

Michael Fulop There is so much green in the summer.It is like a book with green pages.And on the pages a script of green writing.The words at first are difficult to make out. But then you see.The...

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Harvest

From Issue 36.1 Danielle Evans Eggs. They wanted eggs, and their requests came trickling in daily in ten-point type, through the want ads of the campus paper. Five, ten, fifteen thousand you could...

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The Light of the Remotest Stars

From Issue 21.1 Justin Cronin The morning he was scheduled to appear in bankruptcy court, Frank O’Neil ate three eggs for breakfast, read the Times and Globe, drank two cups of coffee, helped his...

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Funerals

Robert Bausch “…Anything makes me laugh, I misbehaved once at a funeral.” –Charles Lamb He could hear the people in the church praying. So many voices carried a long way and he could...

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Landscape Where I Forget My Father

Jennie Malboeuf The four corners of my eyeline are rich with distraction. An aquarium, a library, a fun park, a creek. In this scene, a shrike crosses the sky, spears a frog on some barb for later....

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Monkey Treachery

Larissa Szporluk Maybe I had a baby with my father. Maybe I’m lying. Maybe I wish  I had a father, then a baby, then another baby, then a break—  what use is a child, or a finger? If we had...

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Rapture

Mary Jo Amani Pay careful attention lest with all the fluctuations of thoughts the greening power which you have from God dries up in you. ­—Hildegard von Bingen writing to an Abbot 1 I bought an...

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Warming

From Issue 39.2 Janann Dawkins The chlorophyll remains in leaf: the limbsretain their hair: the trees do not believethe sun will set on them. They think the filmof heat is normal—that it will...

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Renegades (for Evelyn Thorne)

From Issue 1.1 (Spring 1972) Jim Everhard In the darkness the moon opensand there is nothing but lightin the twists of its mind,the unthought of dreamsof dead men bending back toward the...

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Virginia Is Not Your Home

Jocelyn Johnson They hung that name on you at birth, but Virginia was never your home. Read Nausea by Sartre and give yourself a new one. Trumpet your new name to the liver-spotted washroom mirror,...

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