Poetry

Late in the winter came one day
When there was a whiff on the wind,
a suspicion, a cry not to be heard

Creep up, moon, on the south Sky.
Mark the moon path of this evening.
The day must be counted.
The new moon is a law.
The little say-so of the moon must be listened to.

In a valley late bees with whining gold
Thread summer to the loose ends of sleep;
A harvester pauses, surprised, in dreams of sheep,
Across his back the ravellings of the sun.

The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes,
The meadow creeps, implacable and still;
A dog barks; the hammock swings; he lies.
One, two, three, the cows bulge on the hill.

In Women of Troy, poet Susan Somers-Willett and photographer Brenda Ann Kenneally look at the lives of young, working-class women in Troy, New York.

I thought that when I saw my brother
walking through the gates of the prison,
he would look like a man entering his life. 

Did you know? You have the right to receive food stamps within a few days if you are eligible and have little or no money. Do any of these apply to you?

She’s always been a tomboy, Mama Vic says, Mouthy.
Runnin’ the roads. Not comin’ home, and as she speaks

You are the country at war and the city ablaze.
You are the flags lining Fourth Street and the singer