Eurydice, at The End [Ovid, X: 1-85] by helen jenks There is always a river, that first boundary of shape, preventing the crossing. See...

I Could Not by m. speaker Would you meet me, love? I should not, beloved, I do not think In the house, the on up North. With the music,...

Not Quite A Graveyard Elegy by patrick wright And now the garden with its rockery and swings — ghostings of past summers. Everything...

I Rarely Show Up For Funerals by belinda rimmer The voice on the phone is from long ago. No crossfire, no haunting, no clumsy...

In The Capuchin Crypt by ricia kearns They must have loved their friars, to make this slow art from mildew and bone— thirty years buried,...

Carrying (For Wren) by jennifer dumbelton Seven weeks new, we stand on Brighton Beach and I feel slick sea-shaped pebbles shift under my...

After The Cold Moon by declan coles I return. Like a rebirth Fitting as the new year approaches: The bitter reigns of the Ever-rising...

The World's Loneliest Sheep by phoebe kalid - for fiona, who was stranded for two years on the shore of the moray firth in scotland....

XIII Requiem by susan zegarsky I can see how bright the fire was remember? and I can feel its heat we tucked in under blankets drinking...

Shark Heart by aoife-marie buckley It’s not even that I’ve thought about Them a lot It’s more that I’ve thought about How it felt to be...

Boyhood by paul o. jenkins Some late December afternoon, The dim, Cold and biting, Blankets the corner house. No birds are left to sing....

Remnants by sarah o'grady The day is released. City bridges murmurate with city suits swooping from Bank to the bridge, transpontine....

They Built a 'Boots' Upon Our Love by jacob ray-halliday I Google Maps takes you only so far. Church of St. Brigid. Tire scorched car...

In Among The Ruins, Love by denise o'hagan | after Cupid and Psyche, Ostia Antica, Rome I tread the wide slabbed stone street, lined with...

Sonnet 50: Umbria in Autumn by marc f. weigand | for linda kirby mewshaw and michael mewshaw Below the Umbrian hilltops, mugged by...

Vigil by naomi madlock A glut of hemlock-green, the river drags the last strands of daylight over the crest of a droning weir, describing...

Now It's Been Two Years by gareth writer-davies and the frost feathering the windows is outside which you always complained about the...

Basketball Days by eric colburn The bonk of ball on backboard brings me back to backyard basketball: the quirky bounce root-rippled...

Ten Days To My Father's Death by sarah das gupta The hospital told me again, they wanted to stop his food. I asked how long would it...

He Was Sick by jerrod laber His name was John, and for a long time that was all I knew. ...John. Uncle John. Like John of the Cross and...