Rebuilding the ’63 Beetle by Nancy Krim
“Rebuilding the ’63 Beetle” by Nancy Krim The engine needs rebuilding he said and she said I’ll do it. But what about the camshaft? She said I can see it slipping there, sliding against the pulley I can see where the problem is. He said you’ll never get it down off the blocks to tow it, you won’t know where to order parts, how to disassemble— I know all about dissembling, she said. I’ve done it all my life....
On the Need to Re-establish Sovereignty Over My Own Heart by Trina Porte
“On the Need to Re-establish Sovereignty Over My Own Heart” by Trina Porte because the city machines hum even if they do not sing because the heart is actually made of muscle because the silver in my hair will one day be spent because the sun will rise on the day i am no longer married just as it will each day after ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here ...
The Last I Saw Mitsou by Karin Cecile Davidson
“The Last I Saw Mitsou” by Karin Cecile Davidson The last time I saw Mitsou, she was crying into an embroidered handkerchief that belonged to my mother. Mother believed in things that lasted. Linen, perfume, clothbound books. Newlyweds, Mitsou and I lived in the fifth-floor walkup. Small rooms with enormous views. Below us, the courtyard, mottled with pale brown stones. Our windows faced the pianist,...
Sleeping Under Snow by Susan Austin
“Sleeping Under Snow” by Susan Austin The gate is open so do what you may. All I ask: leave what remains wild wild. Be kind to the thistle. Of all the lotus flowers raining upon the Buddha that day, all the bodhisattvas– there must have been a weed or two. I feel 10,000 years old. I give back all your wars. As for mine, it was futile trying to out-swim a tsunami. Virginia, I put riverstones in my coat...
Patience by Mary Elise Bailey
“Patience” by Mary Elise Bailey from “Songs for Spring” I curl around the bulb of a strange blue flower, its nascent lines, in darker blues, delphic and hidden, like a cross between a wish and a map no one can read. I wait for the leftover snow to melt, last year’s grass, still tinted green. I wait for the lines to reveal their intentions, to thicken, to ripen, as the ground slowly unfolds its...
Art is my taste for freedom. I drown day and day until I pick up my paintbrush once again. So, somehow, I can tell myself that you’re not stuck in this room and that the canvas is the key.
Nina Salvadoré
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Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
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This time, there is no setting our art aside. This time, there is no setting our art asunder. This is our time.
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seabed or ocean floor Sep 26, 2025
