His Trailer
There was a mango
tree out front
and a man-made pond
behind it.
His trailer smelled of cigarettes
and it did not feel like
home.
The closets held mostly golf
shirts and there was very
little by way of
decoration.
Inside the edges of one frame
he kept a collage
of pictures
full of all the faces
he should have loved
but didn’t.
My little boy
school portrait
now thirty years old
looks back at me
from
the very center.
—Ryan Brennan
The Only Word
where snow falling
is the only word, the only
—Raphael Kosek
If there is fire, there is a word,
just as there is when snow is a word,
just as you speaking these words
to yourself, then to . . .
So then becomes now.
Just another word.
Just like fire. Just like snow.
Where the two meet doesn’t matter.
Snow doesn’t burn. Fire does.
So do words when we let them.
Just as we want them to,
just as we intend them to.
Alone with the snow, you learn
more than what any word can say.
Even when there is no sound, or fire.
Even when the only word is never spoken.
—Robert Harlow
That’s the Smell of Diabetes
Eau de chocolate chip intoxicant
cookie, controlled food substance
awaft from the oven
A hypnotic sway—Take Me
to Your Baker
I Don’t Care about
the Glycemic Index
Addiction, you snake charmer to lure
attract
bait
dangle a chocolate-covered carrot
over my basket to lost obedience
to the Demerol doughnut
Sweet Pig vanilla cake
with narcotic icing and bacon
Euphoria doughnut with
rainbow drizzle and pop rocks
He is at risk for dependence
befogged by the Morphine muffin hazed
in marshmallow
drug induced,
seduced
reduced by temptation
Oh I beseech thee carbohydrate:
A refined
cookie with Darvon sprinkles my
hypnotic sweet, turn the lights
out get cozy with layer cake
Insulin will not insulate you at the mountaintop
Chop Chop bring me my meringue and
SheShe buttercream
Get turned on by fruit-filled
delirium toastees
—Grace Maselli
The Lesson
I am teaching my daughter the alphabet.
It is a precious thing, I tell her
each letter in its proper place
waiting to be called upon
to write a language,
to say or try to say—
the beauty of the effort.
In the quiet corners of my day
I write to you, I tell her
as we sit at the table
in our small kitchen
in complete happiness.
A practice I began when she was
as young as a prayer.
What she likes best is to know
that my love transcends both time
and form,
that it is boundless—
this being the lesson.
—Nicole Grivois
In Memory of Hal Sirowitz
Hal, for all your mother said
to keep you alive and safe, you died.
My mother did the same, said to me:
Don’t sit on a cold surface outside
in winter, or else your kidneys will
give out. Don’t go out in the col
with wet hair. You’ll catch pneumonia
and die. Don’t swim for an hour
after you eat, otherwise you’ll
cramp up and drown. And when
you’re in the pool stay in the center,
otherwise there could be an accident.
You’ll sink. My mother warned me:
Don’t eat pork in the summer, don’t
eat fish in a diner, don’t eat any
salad except Iceberg. If not, you’ll
get ptomaine, diarrhea, salmonella.
Avoid mushrooms, fresh or canned,
they’re useless, dirty things. Eat corn.
Mother said; Don’t read used books
from the library or rummage sales.
They’re all filled with tuberculosis.
It’ll kill you. Buy books, if you really
absolutely must, new. And don’t read
too much; you’ll get cataracts and go
blind. Hal, your mom’s gone too like
mine. Somehow I feel my mom’s edicts
aren’t enough to keep me here forever.
—Patrick Hammer, Jr.
Walkin’ to New Orleans
Bleecker Bleecker
Waycross Bleecker
On Bedford/Carmine/Saint Luke
Up 7th Perry
Through Abingdon
Out Along Greenwich
Aside Jefferson
Cross 6th To 8th
Til’ 5th Meets
Waverly Arch
Breaking All Of MacDougal
To Houston
One Side Down
Other Side Back
Over 4th
To Sheridan
At Once
To Sheridan Square
Roaring Roundabout
Beat Heart
Of Poet Courage
—Peter Coco
Raritan Bay
Seagulls line the splintered
jetties on their one leg and
the clams lie slyly half hidden
beneath the muddied
waters of Raritan Bay.
At night, you can hear
the toot of the ferry, the
tides rush in and see the lights
of Coney Island in the distance.
Nearby on the boardwalk,
the Ferris wheel and carousel
sparkle and shimmer and sunsets
dip pink across the horizon.
If you stand on the boardwalk
in day and shade your eyes with
your hand, you will see us.
We are warriors in water.
We push, pull, splash, rise and fall.
My sister steps forward and I
step back onto a lip of metal
half buried beneath the sand
feeling the sting of a serrated edge
slice the toe on my right foot.
I jerk my leg from the water,
the warm breezes pass through
the dangle of skin and bone.
My blood drops and flows in circles
on the water and I scream Dad.
I weigh my father down as we hobble
through layers of hot sand, broken
shells, cigarette stubs and soda caps,
blood trailing like a rattler on a desert of debris.
My father sits me on a wooden chair in
McArdle’s Bar and Grill. I am dizzy.
I close my eyes, taste the pungent smell
of beer and whiskey, hear clanking of glasses,
bursts of laughter and blasts from a jukebox.
Tightening my grip on a bloodied bar towel
wrapped around my foot, I see my father
cross the room and stare out for the ambulance.
I show him I am brave and hold back my tears.
So we sit. Father, daughter a room apart, we wait.
—Kathleen MacKenzie
Whim
small winsome glories
rap on the window
marigolds and sumac
a chocolate square lopped off
with teeth
I let out a spangled sigh
and reach for something
to write with
the moon is full of wax
and luminous
unable to recall a time when
dreams were this
decadent
cherries pitted
in a silver bowl
the record scratches
a kiss goodnight
and tensile fingers
explode
can I get it all down
before sunrise
what will it take
before the sun rises
will it take before
the sun
—Sawyer Tennant
You have to turn around and face it,
or it will chase you until you die
And yes it has teeth,
and you can’t see around it,
and you don’t even know where to start
Dig deep and sit still
Glance back and inch forward
Remember everything and write it down
Let the feelings pass through you
Be angry, use too much hyperbole
Be emotional. Be numb.
Be uncomfortable. Be sad
Let it follow you, let it linger, let it haunt
Use your youth as a mask
Passivity as a poison
You have to turn around and face it,
or it will chase you until you die.
It was my father,
and the old house,
and adolescence
It’s well over now. That’s why
I can write about it
I can look it in the eye
It’s an old friend,
the black dog that rests
its head on my knee
Sometimes I can even smile.
—R. K. Finch
Hudson Valley River Rock
Hudson Valley River Rock,
thousands of pebbles, rounded, smooth and dark,
bought at a stone-selling store.
At first, I thought it’s just a bunch of stones,
but then I drifted back in time—
I saw rocks jostled by churning water
brushing each other smooth,
water-washed and slowly worn away,
day by day, year by year,
eons smoothing the river bed
rounding the roughness with
the softest abrasive ever made
molecular bristles of H20
rough rock caressed by tiny touches
relentless gentleness
caressing the stone so very slowly
atom by atom.
How much is a pebble worth?
Let’s see:
Ten million years of polishing at $15 an hour.
My God, this pebble is worth millions of dollars,
and I just paid $30 for thousands of them!
And then there are the extras I can’t compute—
stones walked on by creatures I never saw,
stones dappled by light streaming through the canopy of trees,
stones streaked by shadows of fleeting fish darting to and fro.
And now I have the privilege
of placing this ancient rock,
this lovely treasure that contains
memories of water and moving light
and glints of flashing fish and gliding eagles
imprinted in invisible ink on every stone
ready to be read by the eye of wonder.
Now I have the privilege of placing this rock,
once the bed of a life-giving river,
on a little honored bed in our garden.
—Richard Gillett
This article appears in January 2026.
