Last Bus by Lynn Tudor Deming
“Last Bus” by Lynn Tudor Deming after Emily Dickinson He’s going to take you now. He’s going to slow down, And you guess it’s the last time You’ll ever have to wait, clutching Your jacket. Much closer than seemed Possible–suddenly its dark hulk looms up– Now it’s your bus, like so many you Fidgeted for in the thickening dusk. ____________________ Share your response...
The Vigil by Dipika Guha
“The Vigil” by Dipika Guha CHARACTERS: WOMAN: any age, true of spirit and heart, a warrior AUTHOR’s note: This play was inspired by Maxine Hong Kingston’s A Woman Warrior and Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. WOMAN The picture is finished. The clouds came last. The sea came first. The horizon line was soothingly straight; just like the eye likes it. Then the islands. A little listless. Alone. Present...
At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos by Ruth Thompson
“At the Whaling Museum, Point Lobos” by Ruth Thompson Let us begin here: outside the one-room whaling museum at Point Lobos, beneath the dark arms of cypresses. White bones of whales lie stacked— chained together so that no one can steal them. No charnal ground, no messy metamorphoses, no vultures. Only the antler shapes of Cypress’s transcendence, and these white bones, past changing. Drybones like stones....
Promise by Barbara Sullivan
“Promise” by Barbara Sullivan Age is the great unseen divider of souls—each from the other and from its own former selves—and at the same time, it’s the one commonality that can be counted on: we have only to wait a while and we understand everyone. Time both speeds up and elongates as one ages—maybe relativity is somehow at work—and I feel close to the people I have loved and lost in a new way as I pass...
The Mirror by Lytton Bell
“The Mirror” by Lytton Bell Look into the mirror and do not flinch You can see Death now rubbing her hands together spotted, wrinkled, bulging with veins engulfing every part of you without judgment You’re a woman with no past always threading her needles on the first try a flurry of diet pills and designer jeans never to be all you might have been You could be lost and not know it a castle with...
Karma by Felicia Mitchell
“Karma” by Felicia Mitchell Saving the sparrow whose small self is wound by wire may not save the cat half eaten by coyote. It may not save even me from myself, sorrow coiled around my heart like a copperhead. I love my cat. I love the coyote that tried to eat the cat. But I am sad about the cat, as sad as a woman crying. I know it is what it is, this snake that will strike or not strike, on any given day, no...
Beginning the Journey by Ruth Thompson
“Beginning the Journey” by Ruth Thompson Something is ended. She launches the small paper boat of it out onto the ocean and turns to the west. To wade out through glittering and foam, to lie upon the deep, to be a membrane between stars and mirrored stars. Then when her throat is full of all the voices she can carry, to turn and swim for shore. To run back, crying messages...
Why You’re Afraid of the Road by Charlotte Muse
“Why You’re Afraid of the Road” by Charlotte Muse There is room for one car, but what if the wheels miss and the car hangs over the edge with two tires spinning? You’d be moving frantically against the door, hoping to keep the balance or get out. Never would the yellow dust of the road seem so desirable; the blue sky so thin and threatening; and you a turned-over turtle, a blind bird! Or what if you...
October Ends by Marsha Howland
“October Ends” by Marsha Howland For Maureen, 1983-2014 The morning rain has ended; the afternoon mist has finally lifted. Late-day sun shines soft and bronze through the yellow and orange leaves at the edge of the woods. It envelops me, then passes on through the French doors, resting on the wall with the Wyeth print. It has reached the end of its journey, this light that has traveled a hundred...
Responsibility by Shirley Plummer
“Responsibility” by Shirley Plummer weary thoughts of the end arise when how if I knew certainly would I make a pragmatic plan? or throw up my hands shout ‘live it up, make hay –‘ why not? if there were sun to lie in I might lie in it stretch and relax enjoy for the first time total freedom ____________________ Share your response to this work, in any form, here Shirley...
Plunge by Margaret Chula
“Plunge” by Margaret Chula The water felt neither warm nor cold as I sank into the sea after hitting my forehead against a borrowed surfboard. The blaze of sunlight on water brought me back to the surface—pulled out of the rip tide by strangers. During World War II, it was the job of school girls from Chiran to take care of kamikaze pilots— washing their laundry, sewing on buttons, and saying good-bye as the...
Singing at the End by Molly Scott
“Singing at the End” by Molly Scott How do we know when that is – the end? so we can put our boots on, so we can be sure our doors are open and all the chores are done, so we can feel the breath, the precious breath move through the bone house one more time ribboned with song. When the sound is right, the singer knows. It’s muscles, really, and intent, an exercise of tensing this, releasing that, a gesture –...
Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits by Judy Schavrien
“Cycle for Nembetsu Udori, Festival to Summon Ancestral Spirits” by Judy Schavrien Summer in Kyoto, Remembering Van Gogh Cicada(1) at Dawn From the full-throated throb you alight – sawing your single note. Noon: Remembering Van Gogh on Mt. Heiei Noon swelled to bursting. In the pine’s blue flame – one sudden cicada! Sunset Cicada, silent in a ray of sunset you weld to the branch. Night Cicada, with all your...
Lady Lazarus by Jacqueline Doyle
“Lady Lazarus” by Jacqueline Doyle For Sylvia Plath That was one pissed-off chick, you know what I’m saying? Sure you do. We’ve all been there, ready to eat men like air. Whirling in circles, spitting menace, lightning bolts shooting from extended fingertips as we point, “You! Yeah, you!” He’s not going to fuck with you no more, they’re not going to fuck with you no more....
In Memory Of by Peg Duthie
“In Memory Of” by Peg Duthie My aunt hanged herself, but her children told the press she’d overdosed on pills. It was in fact pills for the boyfriend of my then best friend. She had her own pills, and I never found out if they helped or healed her: I moved away. She stopped writing back. I pictured my letters chewed into spitwads. There were pills, too, for Mr. Popularity— a prince of my high school...
Untitled jisei series by Shirley Plummer
“Untitled jisei series” by Shirley Plummer Based on Lewis Turco’s Paradigm have morning birds flown? still earth under empty sky do you fear the dark birds of prey swooping ’round me circling the death that is near sweet song of blackbird plucks at the strings of a harp my heart cries out at fledgeling’s wistful entreaty owl eyes terrorize alarmed child...
Visit to Sete by Lynn Tudor Deming
“Visit to Sete” by Lynn Tudor Deming Long drive down the coast to reach That small cemetery set over the sea White tombstones tilting their sails Under the fragrant pines Immensity of light. An old man with his cane Perched alone in the staggering sun Come to feed the cats Elegant in a blue turtleneck Knowing the hunger of the stray. My father lay once in the nursing home His cane by the bed Fully attired for...
When the Moonlight by Berwyn Moore
“When the Moonlight” by Berwyn Moore in memory of Ann Contact inhibition: The cessation of cellular growth and division due...
Woman Waiting by Antonia Clark
“Woman Waiting” by Antonia Clark She ignores clocks and calendars, lets time slip through her fingers. One summer, she ran barefoot all the way to Hartland, a love note clutched in her fist, her hair like fire taken by wind, a thin cotton skirt clinging to her bare legs. So easy, then, to question perfect strangers about birth, blood, to keep faith with her own body’s deep secrets. Now, she smooths a...
Bernard Brings a Drink by Jill Barth
“Bernard Brings a Drink” by Jill Barth Bernard holds out his hand to his regular. Old, hatted, nodding Marie takes her seat in the sun. No struggle is mentioned, though he watched her lose balance at least twice on her way to his café. He reimagines her fall: rumpled skirts and moans of pain. He’s seen her fall. Before the wine and after. At her seat, she moves her feet lightly on the pea...
I have not yet written a single page by daylight.
Harriet Jacobs
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