Little Hours

K.K. Adams

Lying heavy in my bed
I hear the murmured
whimper of a son
lauding his hunger
in the darkness
and, opening one eye,
see the hour—3 a.m.

I will arise,
hoisting my heaviness
out of the warmth
of my bed,
to keep this vigil,
to be a comforter,
to invite another in.

Open Great Wide Doors

Stephanie Mader

I’m zipping down Parker Avenue, cursing myself and wondering why I didn’t charge my cell phone last night. If I were a smart man, which I sometimes claim to be, I might’ve called Tessa and asked her to sneak my charger over during lunch. Only, Mr. Boss-man was hovering around my desk all day. I could see his reflection in my computer screen. It’s like he knows. They were supposed to call today. [Read more…]

The Edge of the Sea

Cristina Montes

The scent from the bay
carries something like memories
from the edge of the sea
where the sun goes
at the end of the day.

I inhale the breeze
As I watch the sun retreat
into the edge of the sea,

and I wonder what’s there,
and why the scents
from the edge of the sea
seem to carry memories,

and whether the ships
moored along the harbor
ever get there.

A Private Matter

Katy Carl

“There’s a woman downstairs who wants to talk to Penny, but Penny isn’t here. Do you have time to sit down with her?”

Jim peered into the cubicle where I sat scrolling through e-mails and the morning news bulletins. Two weeks away from the end of my newspaper internship, I had grown fond of what our grizzled cop reporter termed “butt journalism”—- hooking up to the internet and telephone and letting the information come to you. Field interviews remained a thrill, but increasingly I liked a story you didn’t have to leave your chair to complete. [Read more…]

The Play Continues

J.B. Toner

For Peg

We tire, and wither, and our souls grow old;
   The trillion miracles that swarm our sight
   No longer lend our hoary hearts delight—
Bright kings enthroned, we weary of our gold.
But oh, our Father is more young than we:
   A child who never tires of one glad tale,
   He calls an encore, lifely, without fail,
And younger actors age-old lines do read.
For every birth renews, redeems, the world—
   To startled eyes, just closed on Heaven's views,
The dazzling panoramas are unfurled,
   With dawn-dew-dappled grace freshly imbued;
And one child born to one good-hearted girl
   Can make the very earth and heavens new.

Villian, elle?

Daniel Gibbons

I am a burning book, a book of flame:
pale letters glow on skin-thin ash
an instant as your hand crumbles cinders, same.

If a book burns in the forest, without reader or name,
Is it no book, a glob of marks?—In its pages stashed:
“I am a burning book, a book of flame!” [Read more…]