Roundtable

As the Ground Slips Away

When she was three, her parents had only one car, black with running boards that she could climb up  into the car with its flannel-lined seats. Her father always took the car to work. Without the car her mother could not shop. They lived in post-war housing, no...

False Floor

What's with all the water? he asks over the top of his morning news. I'm bleeding mid-cycle, she half whispers. He flares his nostrils, ruffles his focus back to his stocks. The floor is also a raft. The Gulf Stream is disappearing with the Atlantic circulation. I...

Inspection

After the school gates were locked, we lined up for Inspection. Boy girl lines, at least that’s how I remember it, I could ask my sister but she won’t remember, she has the most shocking crap memory, it’s amazing what she’s forgotten. More than most people ever...

Two Poems (full doubt)

Discharge     my scalp erupts with rash the surgeon forgot to shave   my head before she left taxi electric silent no smoke   to curse suck watch rise yet these white walls sheets   pillows drapes chair sky sky count backwards to the...

Maybe Now, I Can Stop

My barefoot husband walks towards me in ankle-deep slush. Dream fog fades into a muddy brown, revealing nighttime, a parking lot. But where? He stops. Slush oozes through his toes. I circle, body following head. Club house, pro-shop, a green (If I remember correctly,...

Hello and welcome to February!

Hi there! Meg has put together some evocative resources on an incredibly important subject -- how we as writers can harness doubt. It's brilliant, the way she shows us how to take this thing that is often considered a NEGATIVE and spins it into something that is...

Blood Coins

You watch, you keep track of your knees, and depending, your elbows too. The wounds are your reward, after you prove again and again that you’re a brave girl. Mommy sees your wounds, she’s proud of you, she was a brave girl too. Brave girls can look at each other and...

A Bolt Out of the Blue

All of this polyglot ramshackle in the stern underpinnings I keep my tongue. The forecast is looming, an act turned into the name of its machine. How stars turn to undoing us, a dropped stitch gone supernova. A needlepoint sampler is all I have left. A grandmother's...

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