Two Poems Alison Moncrieff Y rustine, the undersqueak of your carriage i seen your bed rustin’ in the yard milkweed growing all up in its frame parts of you rise up between hunks of the old hiway rain tools the weedpath in wishbones, sugar split your selves crazy, that’s what you did same way…
All Sharp Teeth and Soft Jessamyn Smyth A naked crone drying her silver hair with a blue towel looks me up and down, glares at my Lava Pants. She’s relentlessly beautiful: strong, weathered, soft, tough-expressioned. She says, gruffly: Why do you wear those. Most people who interrogate me about this I ignore, or deflect…
What to Do When Grandma Has Dementia Larry Handy The Woman in the Corner When Grandma stares, points at and talks to the invisible woman in the corner holding a baby, just ignore her. Don’t be afraid, even if it is 10 p.m. and you’ve just finished watching Paranormal Activity. Grandma will grab your arm…
Mr. Lessing Nick Roth 26 August 1842, at Boston Dear Isaac, I don’t say he is so much an avaricious man, as you say in your letter of the 14th, as he is perhaps a parsimonious one, which these are of course two separate things. Papa was the former and not the latter. And about…
Through the Bay’s Lace Curtains Vincent Barry Once when we had a wake, a viewing if you prefer, the casket sat solemnly just beneath the bay window of the brownstone’s uppermost floor, where of late we played carefree. And when they lifted me — to kiss the waxy forehead above bone-rimmed sockets so as, dontcha…
