Slingshot
by Diane Wiener
At first, I think I know a story and its timing, but then I don’t, and can only conjecture. There’s a lot that I cannot seem to recall with certainty about my father’s carved wooden slingshot—when and why he made it, how I inherited it. As happens when I look at photographs of him, particularly the one of him smiling, around age eight, sitting on a high-back chair with his arms way up in the air, I can usually hold the slingshot for just a few seconds before the emotions rush and sweep.
Except Two Suns
by F.C. Shultz
Falling off a cliff
into the dirt gray
morning, shuffling
around until hot drink
and the book sits beside
as the gold hair of
morning falls across
the sky; glorious.
Crossing the bad leg
over the better one
as the impressionist
paints with last light,
cold cup and mate beside
until the paint fades back
to gray, a rise and set
in one day; divine.Meandering in Blue
by Darlene Graf
Am I blue? If you have to ask then you’re probably blue. Billie Holiday asked it. I asked it while climbing a steep hill in the Missouri moonlight. Am I blue? Yes–blue in that indulgent way that is melancholic but also a nice reprieve from the energy of netting joy and complacency, the steady stab of boredom. I am blue like a flat stone under the cold moonlight. I am blue like a Blue Jay feather caught in the slide of gravity. I am blue like a clock that doesn’t tic, stuck in time, blue inertia.Slingshot
by Diane Wiener
At first, I think I know a story and its timing, but then I don’t, and can only conjecture. There’s a lot that I cannot seem to recall with certainty about my father’s carved wooden slingshot—when and why he made it, how I inherited it. As happens when I look at photographs of him, particularly the one of him smiling, around age eight, sitting on a high-back chair with his arms way up in the air, I can usually hold the slingshot for just a few seconds before the emotions rush and sweep.
Except Two Suns
by F.C. Shultz
Falling off a cliff
into the dirt gray
morning, shuffling
around until hot drink
and the book sits beside
as the gold hair of
morning falls across
the sky; glorious.
Crossing the bad leg
over the better one
as the impressionist
paints with last light,
cold cup and mate beside
until the paint fades back
to gray, a rise and set
in one day; divine.Meandering in Blue
by Darlene Graf
Am I blue? If you have to ask then you’re probably blue. Billie Holiday asked it. I asked it while climbing a steep hill in the Missouri moonlight. Am I blue? Yes–blue in that indulgent way that is melancholic but also a nice reprieve from the energy of netting joy and complacency, the steady stab of boredom. I am blue like a flat stone under the cold moonlight. I am blue like a Blue Jay feather caught in the slide of gravity. I am blue like a clock that doesn’t tic, stuck in time, blue inertia.About Us
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