(Click on the titles to view the poems)

 

Special Feature — Word Poems
Poems containing the words frontier, pool, rhubarb, and pulse.

 

Two Poems
 
Ahead of me is a night of slush and snow,
of black fences and cold fires. Old rugs stained
with the crust of your lust.  
 
Sarah Sorenson

 

Two Poems
 
I've seen even the best
laid flat like this in the end for lack of an age-proof vest,
but, still, a year is a year, and even dearer the nearer the trenches  
 
Mike Chasar

 

Monuments
 
I see them everywhere: small tributes
to those whose last breaths
were taken along these roads.  
 
Karla Huston

 

Shipping News
 
My ballast tanks, in need of dry-dock and, some
might say, emergency repair, see me list more
to starboard than to port.  
 
Allison McVety

 

The Helicopter and the Tiger
 
My mood drops down suddenly
like a helicopter in a squall.  
 
Michael Estabrook

 

Last July
 
I hate
how these yellow sheets look lying there, the stain
the coffee cup leaves on the countertop  
 
Lightsey Darst

 

Eclipse
 
Something girls admire
while taking in the sky,
opening then like tulips
to that murderous melt.  
 
Adriana DiGennaro

 

Learning Painting
 
I think I'll settle for imagining
what my first painting will look like  
 
tolulope ogunlesi

 

The Stick
 
Sometimes
you're given a stick.  
 
Mark Melton

 

The Palm Reader
 
My body splays out above me, surreal
and stretched, a site in a carnival
fun house.  
 
Carol Fant

 

Trappings
 
shovel and pickaxe hit
the wall, drawing sparks in the fleeting light.
They speak little, but growl deep curses  
 
Nick Bruno

 

Jesse Willis, Hard and Low
 
He was savoring the burn
of liquor in his throat,
steering Greedy's Highway
with one meaty hand  
 
Tim Peeler

 

An Evening Clue for the Overlearned
 
How dreary to hope against hope
for a second bite at the cherry!  
 
Alessio Zanelli

 

Prayer
 
Their lips keep the lowly cantor
of a plea to Jesus Christ, but instinct sings
to higher, older ears, Pagan things.  
 
Billy O'Callaghan

 

The Transfer to Higher Security
 
Queasy under the charring scrutiny
of her bifocals, I thump my shoes
until mud crusts her Tibetan carpet.  
 
Arlene Ang