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DAY OF THE DEAD A POEM BY ARLENE ANG CROW YEAR PAUL SILVERMAN Days earlier the sky had turned black, not with weather but with crows, and the old Bullhead log rats who swept up at the sawmill said the last time this happened, this plague of crows big as eagles, it was followed by a mini ice age, killing off summer tourism for fourteen years.... MORE BABY IN A JAR A POEM BY TANIA HERSHMAN THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS EDWARD MC WHINNEY I was in Tommy’s Place, feeling low because I’d lasted a mere week working for the builder, Riley. Was it only a week since he’d employed me across the road in The Crystal Palace? I’m genuine, said Riley, a fair wage for a fair return. I had a number of reasons for taking the offer. First, Celia, she had to be minded, then, Con, of course and then shaping my day around, well, shaping my day around being alive, a squirming worm on the hook. The only option if I didn’t take the job was to continue to live a sequestered life, minding every penny, a half pound of mince here, three mackerel there, a bottle of Powers and the Lotto Extra Quick Pick to fuel Celia’s dreams.... MORE Dead.htmlDead.htmlCrow_Year.htmlCrow_Year.htmlCrow_Year.htmlBaby.htmlBaby.htmlSisyphus.htmlSisyphus.htmlSisyphus.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0shapeimage_5_link_1shapeimage_5_link_2shapeimage_5_link_3shapeimage_5_link_4shapeimage_5_link_5shapeimage_5_link_6shapeimage_5_link_7shapeimage_5_link_8shapeimage_5_link_9
YELLOW FINCHES JIM KROSSCHELL The frame I have on Penobscot Bay is about twenty feet wide. This is the unobstructed view; blue water (or green or gray or silver, depending on the sky) also peeks through the outstretched branches of the pointed firs on right and left. The bottom comprises Adirondack chairs on the lawn, the top sun and moon and lightning and stars. Across the frame, from fir to fir, flit yellow jewels. ... MORE THE FACTORY, AN ELEGY IN 6 PARTS REBECCA LEHMANN 1. The Managers The Managers are giving silver dollars to our children, are telling them that if they are good, they can have our jobs once we’ve died. Inside the Factory we step on the steel grating of the stairs tenuously, we operate with levers and cogs, with finger-stained red buttons that read: Push here in case of emergency. We dream of pitch blue sunsets at night, of our children skipping ropes woven from reed grass in the center of a deserted parking lot. All their feet lifting at the same time, all their reed ropes whooshing against the pristine concrete, the silver dollars flipping in their pockets – one coin per pocket, one pocket per child. .... MOREFinches.htmlFinches.htmlFinches.htmlFactory.htmlFactory.htmlFactory.htmlshapeimage_6_link_0shapeimage_6_link_1shapeimage_6_link_2shapeimage_6_link_3shapeimage_6_link_4shapeimage_6_link_5
REVIEWS NON-FICTION The River Lock by Stephen Haven Reviewed by Thomas Larson FICTION Woodsburner by John Pipkin Reviewed by Harriett Green The Earth Hums in B Flat by Mary Strachan Reviewed by Cynthia Newberry Martin Castle by J. Robert Lennon Reviewed by Frances Badgett Two Novels by Dag Solstad Reviewed by David M. Smith POETRY Unexpected Light by C.E. Chaffin Reviewed by Shaindel Beers Painting Rain by Paula Meehan Reviewed by Grace Wells Chronic by D.A. Powell Reviewed by Gregory Lawless Reviews.htmlHaven.htmlHaven.htmlHaven.htmlPipkin.htmlPipkin.htmlPipkin.htmlStrachan.htmlStrachan.htmlStrachan.htmlCastle.htmlCastle.htmlCastle.htmlSolstad.htmlSolstad.htmlSolstad.htmlChaffin.htmlChaffin.htmlChaffin.htmlChaffin.htmlMeehan.htmlMeehan.htmlMeehan.htmlPowell.htmlPowell.htmlPowell.htmlshapeimage_7_link_0shapeimage_7_link_1shapeimage_7_link_2shapeimage_7_link_3shapeimage_7_link_4shapeimage_7_link_5shapeimage_7_link_6shapeimage_7_link_7shapeimage_7_link_8shapeimage_7_link_9shapeimage_7_link_10shapeimage_7_link_11shapeimage_7_link_12shapeimage_7_link_13shapeimage_7_link_14shapeimage_7_link_15shapeimage_7_link_16shapeimage_7_link_17shapeimage_7_link_18shapeimage_7_link_19shapeimage_7_link_20shapeimage_7_link_21shapeimage_7_link_22shapeimage_7_link_23shapeimage_7_link_24shapeimage_7_link_25