Contributed By: Katy E. Ellis
Yes, we find the shrine—
dot of island, nothing more.
Dust, relic, and hope.
…
Twin hive houses stand
history brailed in landscape.
Relatives unknown.
…
Mud against bee’s sting,
lip already bulb red taut,
gravel roads wring on.
…
When a door opens
hundreds of people climb stairs—
not the Northern Lights.
…
Legs pedal-tired.
Pour us a pint of shadow,
thirsty to be lost.
Return to table of contents for Issue 7 Summer 2013
The following interview was dictated from a video conversation that took place on January 28, 2021. Leslie Diuguid: I can’t wear these. (removing headphones) Corey Durbin: I can’t hear you. LD: (muffled) . . . blah blah blah blah CD: Okay, I got you. LD: Okay, here I am, but yeah, that’s the disappointing thing. […]
This poem was selected as a finalist for the 2021 MAYDAY Poetry Prize. I. It wasn’t until today I learned that tornadoes are born from thunderstorms. I have only ever known the kind that come on in the evenings, soft but flanked with wind, bearing shade to ease late summer heat. I only know […]
VERMONT EXIT RAMPS by Neil Shepard Big Table Publishing 50 pages reviewed by Tony Whedon Four decades ago Leo Marx defined the central conceit of the American pastoral as the steam locomotive breaking a nineteenth century forest’s silence. In his classic The Machine in the Garden Marx examined that figure’s significance to American literature as it chugged through […]
