Contributed By: Nancy P. Davenport
I found that bottle
of chianti
in the cabinet
for cooking
it’s nothing special—
kind of cheap,
actually
I’ve spent the hour,
the day, the week
minutes
ignoring that
it’s in there
seconds
but here it is
in front of me, the
cork pushed in
with the end of
a knife
because I threw away
my corkscrews
and I am
drinking it,
anyway.
Return to table of contents for Issue 8 Summer 2014.
Behind our house, a soft bog Digested things that died there. I tested it with my shoes, Expected hands upraised Or at least a riot of worms. Our nervous dog skittered As if she anticipated…
In Prisov, not far from Košice, a shul or rather an exhibit of itself restored, except of course for its congregation, is open for tourists to visit and inspect. On a wall are photographs of…
Issue 8 Summer 2014 HANNAH DELA CRUZ ABRAMS received the 2013 Whiting Writers' Award for her novella The Man Who Danced with Dolls and her memoir-in-progress The Following Sea. She has also been accorded a Rona Jaffe National Literary Award…
My mother and I went to a music store one day when I was nine or ten, skipping school because of a nervous stomach. She'd promised to buy me the sheet music for Man of La…
Nothing ever was the matter with Jesse’s dad. Nothing, anyway, that he could articulate to his wife and daughter. He just started drinking more beer. And after a while, inexplicably, he stopped using the garbage can. He’d drink a six pack of Bud Light and throw the empties into the grass. They lived off a […]
At the end of the path, just before the turn that would take her to the convent, she stood facing the hedge, running her hands along the bushes. “Here,” she muttered to herself, “here, here,” pushing a little at the dense green branches. And finally, her hand went in, a space big enough for a slender girl to push through.
After the storm returned: We sat barefoot on the back porch, The water whipping itself into a frenzy, Us in our plastic red chairs. The oak tree leaned down to us, like God observing ants in a flood, Its shadow falling over your face, Making roots of your feet and branches of your hands. And […]
