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Sean Ferrier-Watson
we whittled the spears ourselves sticks found along the lakeshore brittle driftwood hardly fit as walking sticks clutched between our fingers like sacred weapons we are snake hunters so we tell ourselves and setout down the shoreline the brown water churning…
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Nadia Arioli
(even though you are not yet hatched) I hope you walk on water, not like Jesus but like a duck- ling. A willful miracle for those who know where to look and ungainly in a way a machine could never. No need for grace. You, always a storm, even before your arrival. I had thought…
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Christine Pennylegion
Ohio Fields Charlotta could not have imagined, opening her hands to send her sons across the pitching ocean, each bearing her lasts gifts—sun-bleached linen shirts straight from her needle, cheeses, pickled herring—seeking their fortunes as the stories always go—surely Charlotta never dreamt the richness of these fields, the iron ore, the river highways, grasslands where…
