Illegal Chickens

Against city ordinances, a woman

keeps five chicks in her basement

until they grow large enough

to live in her backyard. No months

of red tape, no permits. The woman’s

protest against rising prices and urban

sprawl turns into omelets, an egg-hatching

science project for second graders, a pound

cake, a neighborhood reminder to catch

the sunrise. Eventually noodle soup

for the neighbor’s cold if she can

catch the darting old hen. Both beak

and chin stretch forward to gain speed.

By Jari Thymian

How the Red River Got Its Name

Dank basement, axes, missing limbs.

The floor creaks above, slow ka-thunks,

something dragged. Sleeping bags,

dim flashlights, a flood of blood in Crookston.

Something burble-burbles in the rusty

plumbing pipes. Young cousins wait

for the story lines: Give me back my liver!

Give me back my liver! The river –

much, much too close to Grandma’s house –

waits for its name.

By Jari Thymian

Never Used Angel

for sale, two dollars, plus shipping, on Craigslist.

Soul guardian, trumpet blower, summoner of heralds.

In excelsis deo, in electric neon, in a new box.

Lit up wings and wire, blinking bulbs, white

cord for snow camouflage, flightless wings,

holiday yard, hallowed art? Hollow art?

Shopping cart? Plus spiritual tax.

By Jari Thymian

Centennial Farm

This field is the one field

on the whole place we’ve never

plowed and planted.

We walk around it,

pacing it off together.

By Jillena Rose

Best Painting I Imagine

two pianos sit in the rain
laughing, in a white dress
you must be,
soaked, shivering, smiling —
as the rain still falls
you dance with eyes alight
your voice ringing
beautifully

By John Reay

Lemon Orchard

All afternoon, the scent of lemons,

as the sun crawls along their backs.

Why bother with mystery when this nostril-light

cracks the rind and routs from hideouts of sweetness

the ghost-scent?

I smashed a lemon,

and billions of distinct particles

left in a haughty squirt.

By Cork Kyle

Tooth Fairy

When I was five,
the tooth fairy got high,
and knocked out a pair
of my baby teeth.
I didn’t dare put them
under my pillow.

By Dennis J. Bernstein

Musician Wife

on long drives

my neck tendons
become guitar strings

my wife
reaches over

places her
velvet palm

on the back
of my head

and strums
me


a love song

By Terry Miller

Cliché

We were talking about cliché

the perfesser with the beard and glasses,

tweed jacket with the leather

patches,

and twelve men in blue and orange

jump suits, most with shaved heads,

wearing knit caps,

and tattoos on their arms and necks,

when there was a commotion

at the back, and we all got up

to look out the window

beyond the cinder block,

chain link and razor wire:

deer at the dark edge of the woods.

By Eric Gadzinski

Thoughts That Strike Me When I Least Expect Them

Took the long way back out on Long Island, stopping
to see the Indian Chief. He took my fingers, all of them.
I could feel his poor circulation, his cold feet and hands.
Smelling of corn, of snow asleep. I believed he had a disease.
I just wanted him to think I was smart.

By Christine Reilly

Pine

Say it’s the wind, if it makes you feel better.
As for me, the trees shiver
As if they remember a needless cruelty done to an old lover.
As if they feel again the wound of the dull blade
Gouging the outline of a stylized heart,
Then tremble anew at the slash that was the blunt arrow piercing it.
Inside it, I carved your initials, bold and angular,
Through the bark and the cambium,
All the way through to the tough fibers of the heartwood.
But when I was done, there was no room left for my own.
So I gashed them beneath the heart,
In the spot where the rot began.

by Ron Yazinski

Canon Fire

Our poets land in the same soft valley,

brush themselves off and get back into line.

We strain to hear their words like whispers

that will not sustain them in air.

By Anthony Nannetti

Sucker Punch

When the armored tank was hit, your buddy

went from slamming banging wolfwhistles

to take my pulse, take my breath

something fuzzy going on hey hey in your head

the desert lit up like a concession stand for Christmas

in the dust storm. Your sergeant talks

like a caveman’s professor, hell, everyone’s on pills,

waiting to soap up in Tehran, everyone’s safety-pinned

to the promise of home, maraschino cherries in Omaha,

snow, a twenty for every beggar in New York City:

baby, I’m sorry if I don’t write back but I lost the dog.

I just opened the car door and he ran into the night.

By B.J. Buhrow

The Flu

Thermometer. Trash bucket

beside the bed. Coke syrup.

Dr. appointment. Plenty of

fluids. Tylenol. Chicken noodle

soup. Saltine crackers. Sodas.

Homework sent. Days go by.

Dew on the grass. Sun in

the window. Crystal clear starry

night. Army book satchel. Written

note. Friends. A yellow bus.

By Danny P. Barbare