Onions -by William Matthews
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text] How easily happiness begins by dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter slithers and swirls across the floor of the sauté pan, especially if…
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After You Have Vanished -by Kevin Prufer
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]The little red jewel in the bottom of your wineglass is so lovely I cannot rinse it out, so I go into the cool and…
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Draft of a Landscape -by Juliet Patterson
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]after Paul Celan The hare’s dust pelt against the juniper’s sky now in the eye uncovered a question clear in the wing of the day…
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Looking at My Father -by Wendy Xu
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]It’s the inside which comes out, as I contemplate him there half in sunlight, weeding diligently a Midwestern lawn. On my persons, I have only…
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The Dream -by John Donne
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Dear love for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason much too strong for fantasy….
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Touched by An Angel -by Maya Angelou
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight…
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The Kiss -by Stephen Dunn
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]She pressed her lips to mind. —a typo How many years I must have yearned for someone’s lips against mind. Pheromones, newly born, were floating…
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The Ecstasy -by Phillip Lopate
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]You are not me, and I am never you except for thirty seconds in a year when ecstasy of coming, laughing at the same time…
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We have no choice in the bodies that hold us -by Holly Amos
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Thing of dirt and water and oxygen marked by thinking and reacting and a couch one may or may not be permitted to sleep on….
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We Manage Most When We Manage Small -by Linda Gregg
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]What things are steadfast? Not the birds. Not the bride and groom who hurry in their brevity to reach one another. The stars do not…
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The Touch -by Anne Sexton
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]For months my hand was sealed off in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings. Perhaps it is bruised, I thought, and that…
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The Gift to Sing -by James Weldon Johnson
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Sometimes the mist overhangs my path, And blackening clouds about me cling; But, oh, I have a magic way To turn the gloom to cheerful…
