Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: You Belong
It’s not true our hearts are our own—
they’re symbiotic as meadows in spring.
The heart exists for who grows in it.
William Shakespeare: Sonnets 18 & 19
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws
And make the Earth devour her own sweet brood
Alison Luterman: Snowy Plover
Their wild wheelings trace the shape
of wonder and grief moving inside us,
pewter, then platinum.
It goes away like that; it comes back.
It carves a black, moving river in the air.
Video: Parkinson’s Together
For a long time, I had been wanting to create a series of portraits of my husband, who is living with Parkinson’s disease. Portraits where I honor Hal as a person – his strength and his vulnerability. And portraits where I express how it feels for me to be both a witness and a care partner in this.
Julia Conley: Loyal Dem Voters Fed Up With Party’s Inaction as Trump 2.0 Takes Hold
Leaders of the grassroots group Indivisible said voters are eager to beat the Trump agenda, and called on Democratic leaders to act as a true opposition party.
Andy Young: Bone Saw Villanelle
In the museum, the Victorian cutting saw shone
with its curved jade handle. He asked me to snap a pic,
stunned by beauty paired with amputation.
Fred Shaw: Shivaree
The busboy’s belly growls
before every dinner shift,
his salted horizon stacked
with slippery plates, toted
two-handed and belt-high
Frida Garza: The US wants to cut food waste in half. We’re not even close.
Americans waste more than 300 pounds of food per person per year.
Barbara Hamby: Nose
Suddenly, I feel as if I have no nose, like Gogol’s Kovelev
riding around St. Petersburg looking for his proboscis.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: The Partners
After thirty years, she knows
he will speak with his mouth full.
He knows her stomach will gurgle
in the silence before they sleep.
Abe Louise Young: Calling from the Homeless Camp
On Tenderness, Expulsion and Mutual Aid
Dawn Potter: Home Burial
I pretend I am living in a faraway
city, somewhere in Europe, where doves
coo in the bell towers and a woman in
heels click-clicks over the cobblestones,
walking, walking late into the night.
José A. Alcántara: Eclipse
Some will be thrilled at your steady undoing,
others, bored, wishing the spectacle over,
still others will be distracted by the stars
blazing past you. But yours will be no quick plummet.
Meg Kearney: Hearts of Poets (Two Poems)
By the time his body washed ashore, all
that was left was burned on the beach, deathbed
a pyre lit by three friends; two then fled
