Covey of Baby Quail / Michelle Frost
We are spies at the window
My sister and I at her kitchen sink
She tells me they arrive like this daily
baby birds tottering along the adobe wall
young Quail popping up single-file
we count 5 6 7 8 9
clown car of desert fledglings
miniature top hats in a row running
One curled feather above each like a question
where to run what was that who are they
My sister was a cute baby Quail once still is
We hurry to the next window to keep up
Dad Quail appears finally black face & chest
Stoic caboose end of the line tall & proud
They race along the side yard wall
down they plop to peck at the gravel
Daylight sweeps its golden broom on them
on us a magic has cast us as children again
Delighting in silly birds we settle in her kitchen
glowing with joy in the retelling
Frank’s American Childhood / David Hadbawnik
Feral cats trot across the dirt lot, scattering morning birds. They perch on the side of the building next door, angling themselves almost horizontally, clutching at the slim crevices in the concrete façade of Frank’s American Childhood
*
An Arab woman wearing a dark blue uniform comes rushing out of the pharmacy and, kneeling beside the stroller, starts cooing at Frank’s American Childhood. She kneels there a long time, serenading and rubbing the cheeks of Frank’s American Childhood, the parents watching it go on for so long they begin to feel uncomfortable, extraneous, powerless to stop her
*
First, there are papers to sign. The doctor explains the procedure, and soon enough, begins doing it. The nurse stands by, holding a pacifier in the mouth of Frank’s American Childhood. There are needles, clamps, knives. The doctor bounces on his heels as he works, confident, even cocky. A soft tap on the door and another nurse tiptoes in. “That’s much better,” the doctor says, barely shifting his glance from the table, “this time you knocked before coming in, I like that.” Then, screaming and blood. When it’s done, the doctor holds up a little piece of shriveled flesh on a length of gauze, the part that was cut off of Frank’s American Childhood. “A perfect circumcision,” the doctor declares proudly
untitled / Alexander Shalom Joseph
dreams of old friends
I’ll never speak to again
why is it that my mind
returns to them so often
are there grooves in the soul
like some worn out record
that play as we sleep
do we skip in the same places
where something once hit us hard
or was taken away
after being there for so long
leaving a gap in us
how long does it take
for our heart to let go
or does it ever let go at all
last night
in the dream
this couple
who were friends with an ex
and are no longer mine
came to some cabin
I was living in in the cold
and helped me to replace
two windows
where snow was blowing in
but we are no longer friends
and the cabin was never real
and it no longer snows here
but how kind it was for them
to hold the panes
as I screwed the frames to wood
oh that in the subconscious world
all those who have left us
can still help us stay warm
oh that that warmth
can somehow carry into morning
and that whenever they are
so far from me
they can feel it too
Election, Thoreau / Sally Kuzma
Morning after Election Day,
what sounds like rain or applause
is actually a patter of blazing yellow leaves
lightly lowering and as they fall
accumulating significant thickness–
they matter.
It’s warm enough for porch-sitting
in New England, for facing our neighbors.
I take my place in the sun
and turn again to Thoreau,
who held strong opinions about democracy
and what we owe each other:
did elections color his Novembers?
I trim my search to elect,
in Walden, in Civil Disobedience.
The electronic archive where I dive
shows just a few entries:
crackling and bonded with a force–
There is something electrifying in the atmosphere–
associated with being chosen–
I used to wonder at the halo of light around my shadow,
and would fain fancy myself one of the elect–
a house aflame–
It was set on fire by mischievous boys, one Election night–
Charged, glowing,
taking it down to the ground to start again.
Jumping In Full / Rachel Lee
Ethereal escape into another world
Playback the recorded tapes as the sexual desire swirls
I pickup the broken plates
Sit down and push on the brakes
Thankful, Grateful, utterly hateful
I just want to hold your hand
Walk in your footsteps so I can understand
You know a dismantled woman can’t help a broken man
Thankful, Grateful, Don’t want to be hateful
Magic wands cast spells to unfreeze a frozen pond
Dip my toe into the water
Then dive into the most intoxicating bond
Swimming in words waiting for you to respond
Thankful, Grateful, No reason to be hateful
My feet take the same steps
It’s perceptual
My joy overrides my regrets
It’s ineffable
My heart feels progress
It’s gradual
It’s nice to finally meet you in this fading autumn light
We can do acrobats and postulate the facts of the afterlife
No more stitches for open wounds
No more horror show for nasty feuds
Thankful, Grateful, No longer hateful
Botanical Garden / Lincoln McElwee
I think of his heavy tread in the botanical garden, the slow crunch of dirt underfoot as we walked through the rhododendron glen. I think about the hydrangeas in summer, the trees and their brilliant fall leaves, the golden blooms of the paperbush in winter. I think about his constant question: how much further? I think about how I’d try to ignore him. I think about how the woodpeckers would hear him coming a mile away. How, at some height, in their trees, they’d pause their holey endeavors and watch his passing. With him gone, the walk through these dirt trails is quieter, his absence a remembrance. A road less and less traveled. What warm-blooded call marks his tidings on the path he now traverses? What colors cloud the brush in a blip of movement? How do beak and wingbeat signal care or caution in his adopted land? When the trees shudder, does he still take note? What moves the trees there? Is it opposite the sadness of the wild wind here? Is it heavy? Is it holy? Does it need as I need here? My friends berate me for not visiting more often. But there’s heaviness here when I step in. I walk in this calm space at times and feel nothing. I listen for the animals at times and hear nothing. Today, I think of him asking how much further, and I don’t ignore him. I shout the answer out loud.
To the banana I still haven’t eaten / Michelle Stoll
The longer you lie on the counter the sweeter you become
I’m not ready to peel you –
I’ve grown accustomed to you
watching me each morning
beside my coffee mug
Don’t ask about the wilting bag of Caesar salad in the crisper
or compare your virtues to the sneaky avocado --
too impatient to make it into guacamole
(it would have been the star!)
You are different. You are Banana.
The smooth in smoothie
the ingredient that elevates nut bread
from questionable to comforting
the soulmate of peanut butter
the Nanna in banana pudding
It’s true, you are an object lesson in best intentions
This time, though, I’ll follow through
won’t be too busy to bake
I’ll find the blender lid among an avalanche
of spaghetti-stained Tupperware
Fruit flies? They are your biggest fans!
Look -- walnuts, brown sugar, eggs
Just waiting for you, Banana.
I would never gaslight you
(Bananas Foster? Not my thing)
Tomorrow you'll be perfectly ripe
My hand on this box of Nilla Wafers--
This time I mean it.
aki no nagaame (秋の長雨) / Sandra Tan
meaning, “the long rain of autumn”. from 27 august to 2 october 2026, tokyo experienced 37 consecutive days of rain, the longest stretch since records began in 1886.
the body, after a shower,
solidifies from what is clear.
bright flowers beading on the ends of my hair.
there’s a pair of bow-knot earrings
lying on the rain-drenched pavement,
side-by-side neatly as though
someone knelt to place them.
pigeon-grey tiles on the roof,
why do you melt away as well?
last night’s storm pried open trash bags,
scattering empty cans and crushed tissues
over the planters.
leaving the train,
I hold my books spine up
to hide their pages.
thoughts swirl and merge
quick as droplets
down the train window.
deep, yellow light in such weather
makes everything worse.
tired of transparency,
I stir milk into earl grey.
