By Morgan Driscoll There are no smiles in this quiet roomthat smells of quiet coffeeand thrums in air-conditioned still. The man onstage says “new trade bill”far too many times,hands unmoving by his sides the words barely fluttering up to die,bumping on crown moulding,tangled in the chandelier. There’s no one herewho…
By Claudia M. Reder My sister says not to send her any more journal entriesabout our mother. They are too sad and she won’t read them. But how else will we remember each phone call summoning us to the chill of each ER, and figuring out how to secure a bed; and you,…
By Bruce Parker By placid mountain streamschanged to torrents of water, mud, and rock,by gutted highways and houses thrown downis revealed what we would keep concealed,the future, which is not for us(though nature will adapt), the truthtold by tornadoes and seven-story snows. Nothing could be said nowthat would make a…
By Margaret Kelliher Kids called my little sister Lemonhead. Her close-set eyes, burrowed into puffy cheeks on a wide face, earned her the nickname. A cowlick above her forehead corralled her bangs into a tuft that hung over the bridge of her nose, creating an unfortunate resemblance to the face…
Henry Smith’s Seasonings By Peter J. Barbour The first time I met Henry Smith was outside an old factory in the summer of 1965, right before I entered my senior year of high school. I was there because Hap Phillips, our baseball team’s coach, had offered me a job helping…