It’s a short drive to the park. Winter has made a whimsical return as if to poke fun at Spring. Snow powdered trees appear to float in rainwater lagoons. I throw my daydreams into placid pools and wish for sunlight. In the foreground, flakes fall, melting instantly on a glass stage. In the distance, they
Look It Up They were always there the rumors, the stories Look it up Hundreds, no Thousands of children choices expunged, futures erased Look it up thousands of children who never came home dying alone and afraid at the hands of their protectors The ones who came to save their souls Look it up They
“African Insomnia” by Mark Blickley I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bones pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of
The Bird Did Not Return to Me In a dream I was a great oak tree. I was by the earth with stemmed roots deep. In isolation, I have let my hair grow. I am among the life-giving in this summer: the wheat and bearded barley also flow in their gold. The scars about me
