What We Call Love Is Seldom What We Fall Into by Sandy Gillespie
“What We Call Love Is Seldom What We Fall Into” by Sandy Gillespie ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Sandy Gillespie’s Artist Statement: I am 66. • At 41, I moved alone from San Diego, California, to Fairbanks, Alaska, to get my MFA in poetry. • I learned to backpack. To listen hard for moose and bear. To dress for -‐35 and watch, at midnight, for the...
What Sets Her Apart, Part II By Tania Pryputniewicz
“What Sets Her Apart, Part II” by Tania Pryputniewicz Looking at Käthe Kollwitz, Women and Art, UC Davis In Raped, trampled leaves, vines. Käthe left one bloom intact. Black center tethers one unified petal. Viewer stands at girl’s bare feet, skirt taut over thighs, white flare where naked breasts disintegrate under sun’s sudden path unobstructed...
What Sets Her Apart, Asks Jayne, After Reading Another Guinevere Poem For Me In Massachusetts by Tania Pryputniewicz
“What Sets Her Apart, Asks Jayne, After Reading Another Guinevere Poem For Me In Massachusetts” by Tania Pryputniewicz (Poet to Jayne) The company she keeps: Arthur, his sorcerer sister, their bastard son. Merlin. Her view of the rain stippled Severn, orchard’s apples rinsed silver by dawn, the blue smoke of burning peat. Hair framed by candleflame, cobalt iris of eyes,...
Won’t You Be My Valentine by Elizabeth Hoover
“Won’t You Be My Valentine” by Elizabeth Hoover By now you are just the space my lover touches me around, his care unwittingly conjuring you. You left an opening to talk to me—your voice speckles through—but I miss you when I feel unknowable, a tongue too swollen to tell. My body is a dream I once had of freedom, a foreign thing that eats silver and loves spiders. How can I tell my lover of my craving for...
What We Talk About When We Talk About Father Rucker by Cheryl Buchanan
“What We Talk About When We Talk About Father Rucker” by Cheryl Buchanan Kim says, It’s like I’m still suspended, when Jenny asks her to recite it. Each year it’s harder to believe. Which doesn’t mean they can’t remember. Leigh keeps talking about horses, their wide infantile eyes. Kim brings old photos, where even grown-ups look so starchy, squeaky clean. Like those school uniforms he stuck his hands up...
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