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

Autumn Wind

The sinking sunshine curled on the ball of a stern eye.
See how quickly the widow walks home.
Bleak, their favorite kissing place under an early moon.
And she trembles beneath the black-holed Milky Way.

By Robert C. J. Graves