By Joy Priest
Cutting down Chambers St.
my pinky toenail comes clean off.
Another little ghost
By Seán Hewitt
A stifling heat—the air heavy—and all around the loud, wet forest knotting the gaps in its own sound.
A peace long earned, then broken;
Only a torso now, the headlong severed from the neck, pelvistwisted off like a stubborn root.
A March sky pinned with stars—purple, almost, and a blue mist in the wheat stubble.Under the laburnum, we waited—the chains of leaf, its cascades of gold flowergone, and the whole tree drooping
On a narrow plinth in the corner of the gallery, a stone portrait:a man, his mouth unlipped
St. Stephen’s Day: home unsettled, a rupture, and here the ruched branch has turned itself outward,
its soft, bright innards held up along the path. At first, a golden
By John Freeman
What if each timeyou caused paina small, round stonewas put in your pocketpebbles for inducingself-doubt
I wish we were livinga story of desire, butI don’t feel Odysseus beating out his taleof longing at the oars
Let us remember liberty was not popular,six years it took Laboulaye to convinceBartholdi a gigantic statue was what New York harbor needed. Elevenyears later
By Sylvie Baumgartel
Pink is the Tuscan sunset. PinkAre the Vietnamese monk patesBobbing under Piero’s True Cross.Pink is plenty, pink is joy.