by Susan Laughter Meyers

And what of the pines
branching over the lake? Am I to take them
as a sign,
these few drops of rain as mercy?
Let them cool my wrist
and palm, the crease at my elbow,
as if to say,
There, and there, this gloss—
here, this wet wink misting your face.

The darkest clouds are blowing over,
shaped by wind
that whips across water.
In its path the surface breaks
into ripples—
no, wrinkles. I feel the chill.
For the living, the chickadee’s
boisterous doxologies
and old beads of turtles
strung in a row, sunning on their log
and keeping track: a long, slow
count of tomorrow’s
lack and all the past seasons.
May the yellow warbler
keep flitting about.
May the dog, the crow, persistent and loud,
settle their complaints
against nothing but air.

Between two clouds, a crack of sunlight.
Shadows of waves
are small, ephemeral, lively
as children who’ve never known death.
Cupped and quick, the shallow waves.
Some rolling toward—
and others, whose backs
are bright swells, quietly rolling away.
—for L.A.F.

*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.

by Gary L. McDowell

Let there be woman deranged made of words:
gardeners and snow-ghosts, moving lips
and butterfly-knots. Let there be.

Let there be man garlanded, houred.
Let there be up to our wrists a blind spot.
Let there be all that is forbidden:

songs of devotion, songs of mourning, songs
of fragile—kiss me in the whirling.
Let there be a cup of sugar. Let there be madly

open mouths, bone-stars, two bodies
in bed. Let there be undoing and more time.
Let there be a fever to subside, apple-picking,

the dipping of hands together, touch and more time.
Let there be a spine, a book leafed open,
selfishness. Let there be haircuts, matching

forks and spoons: the little things. The mice
that’ll nest in the garage. Do you trap them—or
let there be come, let’s go inside.

Let there be enough. Let there be. Let there be
lunch on a Tuesday. Quiet, more time,
two bodies because the world

could stand to be still sometimes,
and sometimes it never is, and so let there be wine
and pulp and singing and devour me.

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by Gary L. McDowell

I knew a girl who closed her eyes
every time she heard a car horn,

drew koi on the knees of her jeans,
knew what it meant to be anonymous

in a crowd, and now I close my eyes,
step into the street—a reflection of the people

who’ve walked here before me—and know
that koi—a homophone

for love—can live two-hundred years,
but I can’t manage long without a window,

the patterns of streets and corners
when every city has its perfect hour:

moment before the light changes, moment we don’t
know ourselves from those orange or white

or blue fish: the sorrow we feel over traffic.
The shadows when we clench our eyes match

our ground-shadows pushing forward home.

*This piece may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author’s express permission.