By Thomas Page Walt Whitman, he himself, prepares to take a portrait. A portrait of something beyond the Walt that has been know. The Walt of Manhattan, the dandy pedagogue, known for his tendency To prefer the physical over the spiritual To desire what can be attained over what can be inferred He, the … Continue reading “Akimbo”
Stay
By Jessica Ricks “Are you hungry?” “No.” “Can I get you anything?” “No.” “Why are you doing this?” “Because I don't want to eat.” “You know what I mean.” “Because I have to.” “I still don't understand.” “I don't fully understand either.” “And yet here we are...please talk to me. I don't want to see … Continue reading Stay
Homestead
By Thomas Page With the glide of a Pen, Emily Dickinson Writes a little poem. She looks out her room’s Window, the cemetery Calls her to picture Momento mori— The fly captures dying light From someone’s pale eyes The buzz steals the soul As the weak lids close firmly To open nevermore. She puts … Continue reading Homestead
A Dramatic Recounting of a Email Chain Between a Student and His Professor
By Thomas Page -------------------------------- “Dear Dr. Kesey, I am not able to attend class today because I have the flu. Yours, Joseph Brown” --------------------------------- “Dear Mr. Brown, I would normally excuse your absence from class, but I’ve noticed you have never attended any of the discussion sections with Ms. Florin. You have used all of … Continue reading A Dramatic Recounting of a Email Chain Between a Student and His Professor
Roots
By Emma Woodford Lydia green fronds a little brittle maneuvered carefully into place branches gently straightened out. Re-placed and pushed down, half a can of water doused whispering a loving chant. Bay tree planted, mold two holes and fold in roots. His ancestor lives in Brittany, kilometers from here, first planted in … Continue reading Roots
Time well-traveled
By Emma Woodford They knew their lives were shattered when he couldn’t find the key. Now she cries at every turn, tears like grains of sadness on her face. We love her house and feel her pain seeing our future in those grains.
I Had a Dream
By Rajnish Mishra I had a dream, not a long time ago. It’s not the kind that I have anymore. In that dream I went back in time to a place that’s not there anymore. They were playing cricket there. I was playing my own age. So, I stood and watched them having all the … Continue reading I Had a Dream
Then I Left
By Rajnish Mishra, I come home after years and carry bribes along: bribes for minds to remember, to remind me the forgotten me. I carry chocolates for all. Death is of two kinds: permanent or temporary removal from a world. In my world of past I’m dead. I’m dead, nearly, for many. I’m dead … Continue reading Then I Left
Tricks Language Plays
By Rajnish Mishra My daughter, eight, looked at me with eyes: half-enquiring, half-afraid, eyes with faith, half, at least, and asked suddenly: Are we born again after death? I looked at my wife. Our eyes met. She smiled: that corners of the eyes, so-it-did-happen smile, and I knew it was not she who dropped a … Continue reading Tricks Language Plays
Post-Work Remains Left
I forgot the applewood bacon in the work fridge. My mother sleeps on the couch as infomercials promising or your money-back guarantee sins blast like music during a tumbling event. There isn't a single Z for shut-eye for me to borrow this evening, I sweated them out in eight-and-a-half hour aisle increments, but I'll get 'em back … Continue reading Post-Work Remains Left
