by KATHLEEN HELLEN
she wears the thinness of the aged tree,
the plans that have miscarried.
She’d lost eight last season.
by MICHELLE MENTING
but no one is there to watch you
weather your notions as you strip lichen off bark, as you peel
bark from tree, as you reveal the bare trunk and the ooze of sap,
does anyone sense your thought-quake?
by TED KOOSER
This tree has a thousand little windows
that it throws open in the fall
ISSUE I (2016)
by ALEXIS LATHEM
Art by SAM MASLER
The ewes begin to stir when they see us coming.
From far across the field, leopard-spotted
with half-melted snow and tufts
of tea-colored grass, we hear the slush
of a dying winter
by J.D. SMITH
As long as they both lived,
my parents told of the starfish
they beachcombed in California
for the two-day train ride home.
by DON THOMPSON
These persimmons have no more to say
about green. From a distance,
you can catch a barely audible yellow,
though not as tight-lipped as lemon.
ISSUE II (2017)
by ERIC FISHER STONE
Art by KERRY R. THOMPSON
It’s not sound but a whole language that coos,
whale-horns blaring through deeps, epic birdsong
honking Odysseys from the homebound goose,
by DON THOMPSON
Some bees must do endless paperwork,
assigned to cubicles.
You can hear the bitterness in their hum,
loathing for anything sweet.
by MARY NEWELL
Out on the porch a rotund-bellied spider
catches bugs that nibble holes in my flowers.
The sun ignites spectral beadwork on
the glistening labyrinth of its slaughterhouse.
by TODD DAVIS
Art by ALYSSA IRIZARRY
A jawbone bleached by winter fails to say what its owner thought as death crowded
the space behind the ear. Instinct’s benevolence continues to bless: blood flows