Richard Hoffman: If You See Something, Say Something
I like complaining but afterward I feel ashamed
as if I met a man who had no feet from a bomb
my country sold his enemy for export rights to
this season’s coolest sneakers.
John Guzlowski: Two poems about my mother
My mother still remembers
The long train to Magdeburg
the box cars
bleached gray
by Baltic winters
Alison Hurwitz: My Son Runs Out of Time
Inside his syncopated thinking, there is only now:
a sound, and he’s a fox kit caught in sudden shift, head cocked,
one paw lifted from the leaves.
Fred Everett Maus: Growing Up
Until I left for college, I lived in the same home with my mom and dad. The house was built in 1924. My grandfather was the first owner.
Sydney Lea: Poor, Sad Soul
I’d seen that balding woman before, the one I watched as she transferred a few small sacks of groceries from her shopping cart to her Kia Soul, a car I considered too young for her.
Jose Padua: Driving Out of Town on the Day Before What Would Have Been My Mother’s 93rd Birthday
she would have loved the blue and yellow tones of this early evening
Pennsylvania sky as busy as a symphony over the landscape of this small town
so far from Asia
John Guzlowski: Hope Is Our Mother
A question I get often about my Polish parents is what kept them going during the war and after the war.
Al Ortolani: Two Poems
I imagined my mother by a fishpond
with garden rocks and submerged reeds,
a pool stocked with orange comets,
fantails, and spotted carp.
Video: Goodnight, Moon
Stephen Gailule wants closure. After hijacking his father’s ashes, he makes a suburban pilgrimage, trespassing onto the grounds of his childhood home. Things change when the new tenant takes a … Continue reading
Valerie Bacharach: Venice
My husband and I sit in Piazza San Marco, sip overpriced coffee
in morning sun, and at home my friend loses pieces
of herself each hour
Ann Fisher-Wirth: Empathy
In the long long bliss of the breastfeeding years, I belonged to that rocking chair where sun filtered through the window and the leaves of the summer pomegranate shifted slowly in the hot June air.
Meg Kearney (Two Poems)
When he was dying my little brother
said cancer was “the sins of our mother”
visited upon him. What’s also true:
her heart was the stone rolled away from the tomb.
Alexis Rhone Fancher: Stages of Grief
17 years since my son’s death, and still, each night when my husband drifts off, I watch movies, write, or read. Anything to stay awake.
Joseph Bathanti: High Mass
Winter Sundays,
when my father was on strike from steel,
he and my mother woke late,
then rose and prepared for high mass at Saints Peter and Paul.
