Paul Christensen: Ghosts and Memories
It’s the place where the dead are sleeping, barely breathing in the moist black earth along the creek. They will rise when the time comes, and ask the living for a candle, perhaps a dish with a cookie on it.
Sharon Fagan McDermott: Halloween, Pittsburgh
such tender ghosts with their small hands reaching into bowls and baskets, so much that’s wrapped in shine even in the rain, even after disaster, even as the adults bury … Continue reading
Al Maginnes: The Skeleton Parade
Old legend whispers them, bent-backed, crook-kneed from the nest of their military graves in the low-ground cemetery by the river. They hobble a clacking cadence whose time no mortal can … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: October
A train pulls into the station. Passengers break like billiard balls, glide to cars and uses. Ezekiel the pushcart vendor hawks his hot potatoes. This is the month of the … Continue reading
Arlene Weiner: John of the Lamp
John of the lamp, poor fellow, you’re quite unstrung. Cat or rat’s got your tongue. Your guts are yellow, your wide grin is hollow. Summon the young to a portal … Continue reading
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