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Nora Hickey
Universe I’ve stared at my dog’s asshole for years. A cosmos contracting— or expanding? The dilation of time. She exposes pink and gray tissue of life—which is also, of course, death. Maybe when I’m gone, when all of us are wiped blank, we will exist in the universe of a dog’s bold pucker. I wouldn’t…
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Dorothy Brooks
for my mother It is your face I remember, the lilt in your voice as we turned the pages. Your delight, matching mine, in the adventure: the dutiful school bus transformed into a carpet ride by a magic button. This was our fairy tale handed from mother to daughter, not a tale of sleeping maidens…
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D.R. James
Entering Winter with a Line from Gwendolyn Brooks Horizon’s burst-smear of pink nonchalance forgets: We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan. In winter’s vise I’ll wrestle — flail! — stampedes of elegies, pendulums of memory, sidestepping swathes of snow-fall brindled with late oak leaves’ yieldings: autumn’s ceding. But from this blunt and…
