Two Poems Elisabeth Sharp McKetta Still Life: 35 There are gifts we don’t ask for that descend On us, those long afternoons in bed. Enjoy Her, they say. She’ll grow up. Days like this The only cure is the verb to grow, spindly As it is without foliage on its branch. We Enjoy them like…

We Dead Scott Sherman When we dead awaken ———-we come as the crow you planted in the earth ———-in a hole-punched shoe box. When we dead awaken ———-we come as the dog, who tried to pull himself out of the road ———-back to you, a half-empty roll of toothpaste. When we dead awaken ———-we come…

They Keep Finding Bodies by My Grandparents’ House Eve Kenneally . . . . . —after Rebecca Hazelton’s “Book of Forget” and Sara Morrison’s Boston Globe article They keep finding bodies by my grandparents’ house, in the woods where I would carve brick into dirt and never got lost. Back by noon. Quilts are a comfort—black-and-white pictures…

Let Me Explain Kathleen Nalley how she became. It was 1973. There was a tree. There was lightning. There was a noose. And a knife. There was a butcher block and a rack of ribs. There was a hidden back room. There was daylight coming through drawn blinds. There were thunderclaps. There was a moan…