Chokecherries by Theresa Boyar
Starting out this morning with no map,
keys like spoiled children
jangling their demands for ignition,
you directed your boots outward...
Roses in December by Leah Bobet
I built a cairn for you at the roadside
out of pitted rocks and wood
and fallen apples sweet with rot...
Dating the Artist by John Grey
I could never be sure
whether or not it was me
being captured on the canvas.
I couldn't feel safe...
Sleeping Arrangements by Sarah Sousa
We communicate in our sleep
like plants, a fine filament spun between
two heavy pillows...
The Jesus Rocks Bike Parade by Theresa Boyar
The end of the line
is a woman in her sixties
hunched over her plastic
daisy-plugged basket...
Not the way you are supposed to like Jackson Pollack by Jim O'Loughlin
Because
if you read
you will be told...
Origami by Allison Floyd
Something made her this way.
She empties tea bags
and stitches them back together.
Writes on light bulbs...
The Red Light Years by Arlene Ang
When the beam travels down my torso,
I undulate sequin-stringed hips.
This floodlight flashes me back to the Enterprise
where James sat erect, stiff under his clothes...
