“Goodbye to Me” by Neurine Wiggin

It used to be that death
was like a mountain:
far away, worn down, tolerant of the seasons,
majestic if climbed, always there.

The old people, as we secretly called them,
were like those landmarks of the earth:
unchanging, slow to anger or feel passion;
faces barely resembled early pictures of themselves.
Their skin was like our fingers after a bath,
only permanently wrinkled.


Into the Mystic--Foggy Morning Paddle by Charles E. Frank

"Breath" by Lynn Shapiro

If I could suck time back
into the vortex of my body
live the past month moment by moment
un-spin the minutes in my middle
feel them circling my spine
tingling out my fingertips
and toes
with the stretch of a cat
let time past wake me up
into those days
now oh what I would do with those days
more than just breathing
my breath could move them
like the wind

Tallulah Beadhead by Marilyn Hollander

Moment of Clarity by Stephanie Welter

“Pencils” by Suzanne Tague

When my first husband got his first serious job, he brought home a box of mechanical pencils he’d taken from the supply room. He said that if he were caught bringing supplies home he’d be fired. This was some months before our divorce. He gave me a handful, and I moved out with a few. Now there’s only one left.


Life by Margoth Moreno

“Let’s” by Jacqueline Nicole Harris

make some magic
before our last days
play naked in the mud
under the moon after a long rain
throw shade at uptight folk
who sneer at our lumps
and imperfections
from behind
glass house windows


Dante's Inferno I by Sondra Pfeffer

“Swing and Jive” by Mary Jane Barenbaum

If only I could bend
time and space
I would fold through the
layers to capture one day
Me and Momma swing
and jive to Woody’s
stomping sax


Jonathan's Vibes by Cheryl Beverly

“Hunger” by Karin Gordon

In my childhood kitchen
a mousetrap with eight holes
stood empty in the evening
full in the morning

to trap a mouse
cost a grain of wheat
eight grains a day
diminished our rations



Trust by Gabriela Leyva

"She Said" by Kathryn Dohrmann

A well-known, nearly blind poet
came for lunch and stayed the day.
She said I started out as a girl without a shadow,
in iron shoes. All afternoon,
summersweet’s fragrant fingers
crept through kitchen windows,
pinned us to the table.