The last birthday present she gave me A reversible vest, brown on one side Yellow on the other, I wore it when I needed to look tough Still hangs in my closet Still wear it for protests and events Where I might need to be found I’ve never been lost in my yellow vest A […]
“We begin in admiration and we end by organizing our disappointment.” —Mary Ruefle Death took her spirit; her body remained. Daily, I greet the jar of her remains. We can’t organize these disappointments. Eight of nine cups have broken; one remains. Violent winds shear away foliage— soon only vultures, bare branches remain. Time is a
Cold January air set my cheeks on fire when I stepped out of the coffee place on Cambridge and Third. I passed the steaming cup from hand to hand while fumbling on my gloves. That was when I saw the headline. “GORE FIRE FALLOUT” sprawled across the cover of the Boston Herald in big red
Nothing but gray – crosshatched gray earth, gray sky charred to the horizon through gray-scale branches. Then comes rain, cupfuls in drops, and the rivers reborn, soil learning again to drink, violets rising to split gray into green and purple. The ash trees still stand bleak in their nakedness but grass grows once more between
Our symphony celebrates an extension of exhaustion with a clashing of cymbals. This musical petting zoo, in this not so sedate library, wrangles the Summer free. The keys are now instrumental, achieving the highest vibration, forming a wind upon your lips. Each child delights, in transport, a buzzing between each string, the sweetness now sounding.
In The Tune Of Wonder Read More »
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is my attempt to capture the voice of my late uncle, who suffered from Cerebral Palsy in the 20th century. I was born in Delaware on January, 1936, a winter of lingering Depression, Hitler’s bullish expansion, and King Edward’s wise abdication for Miss Wallis. Such a beauty! My older parents, who
Uncle, a Translation (flash fiction) Read More »
My mother’s coffin closed, copper like a tea kettle. My aunt whispers, is this where we leave her, but more as a statement. I reply, yes, but more a question. *Author’s note: The title references the song by Mike + the Mechanics (1989). The song alludes to memory and descendants as extending the reach
When the whooping crane comes to visit me with its smokey feathers and nimble legs it melts the edges of my grief into Holy seawater Illness has unraveled my life made me question everything I thought I knew not like this graceful crane who is sure of itself performing the ritual of a dancer’s plié
Atonement (flash memoir) Read More »
The blind lead the blinded along broken streets of what is left. Some say this is new territory. Others say it is the same old, same old fight over territory again. Bombs drop. Tears. It rains for days. A young girl (maybe Palestinian, maybe Israeli) tells all about having lost her one good eye. Half
A Now Unrecognizable Road (flash fiction) Read More »
By Constance Emmett After my children left home, I felt such relief. They’d filled my small house, taken up every square inch, but now I have it all to myself. In the heat of the day there’s no bird song in my garden, just the sound of the wind. Two weeks ago, as I deadheaded
On Our Own (flash fiction) Read More »
