Christine Rhein: Chop Suey
A bright, spring coat hangs on a hook—Chop Suey customers
unaware Wall Street will crash, the country will plunge into war
upon war, torrents of technology. Yet already, in their face-to-face
hunger—no smiles, no laughter shatters the loneliness.
Christine Rhein: The Art of the Deal
Three men sit playing a game, clutching
the cards they hold, the need they feel
to cheat. The biggest man—Elon Musk—
sports a dark, draping cloak, appears proud
of his deep, hidden pockets.
Robbi Nester: Still Standing
At first glance, I think she is a teacher
drawing on the chalkboard. One finger
rests on the crevice where the chalk is kept.
The other arm sweeps wide, into an arc
on the board’s murky green surface,
where transparent moon-jellies swarm
Robbi Nester | Fog and Moonlight: Margaret in her Nightgown, alone in Bella’s yard
You threw off the rumpled sheets,
glided down the stairs and out the door,
leaving it open behind you
Tony Magistrale: Thinking about Brueghel on a Sunday Afternoon
Despite the ice-bound world outside my own winter window,
how much colder it appears there
in the teal-tinted landscapes they inhabit.
Judith Baumel: The Last Judgment in which Enrico Scrovegni is Seen Presenting a Model of His Chapel to the Blessed Mother
Like a litter of mice born bare and squirming
the resurrected emerge from the cracked ground,
their bodies so very pale and hairless
so small and scrawny, stunned and scrambling
to comport themselves.
Terry Blackhawk: So Here
So here I’ve gone and reframed your painting, the one of the street with its tilted telephone poles, the street that led me into sleep so often now bordered by an eggplant purple, very trendy and advised by the decorator to pick up the purples and greens of other pieces in my room…
Margo Berdeshevsky: After Fado, At the Elgins
I’m weary of
celibacy he says, eyes on the Elgin Centaurs,
battling warrior-boys forever-father
Mary E. Martin: Permission to Forget
What we should remember
is how the wind like our breath
bellows the world
