How many little lives in between my fingernails, how many layers / of sod, of seed? This cold grass is all corpse and it’s only six o’clock /
in the evening. At the group home, I’ll spoon green beans and strained peaches / into my grandfather’s mouth, push them back onto his plate when he shoves
She is up against the wall in the kitchen, pushed against the world’s smallest refrigerator, one hand on the world’s smallest oven, bright hot red. She is saying something. What is she saying?
In Sidewalk Dancing, Letitia Moffitt gives us scenes from the lives of a family of three, telling their story in a collection of tales.
If the Earth is a hotel room and humans are the rockers who trashed it, the Moon regrets that cosmic management has not procured the imprint of a mortal credit card. The Moon and its subsidiaries are taking a look at the Moon’s own violent creation.
The gun room has two doors, or three–compare the first, if you please, with the father’s body–and a table painted gray.
CRAIG BEAVEN has poems out now or forthcoming in Carolina Quarterly, Third Coast, Prairie Schooner, North American Review, and others. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
I imagined myself flying away from my body, away from the tiger, away from the earth and I was safe, I thought, until I felt the big cat’s muzzle press against my belly. I shut my eyes tighter. His whiskers felt like the broom Mother used to sweep our hut and I could feel my shirt wet where his nose met the fabric.
ALISON PRINE’s poems have appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Harvard Review, Poet Lore, and Tar River Poetry among others.
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