c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Frank Possemato

A machine is not a living thing
machines can't reproduce

The evening is black with the sound of unseen frogs
hiding from those who trust their eyes
to know is to kill
but to be silent is worse

What moves them to croak
somewhere in the smallness between brain and stomach and throat?
The individual doesn't matter

The species is nothing too
or why else would I run —
A lurch, a splash, a miss
again faster
A frog in my hand
as silent as Christ before Herod

FLYING IN by Brent Wiggans

FLYING IN by Brent Wiggans

by Shawn Pittard

Seagulls gather on the power line.
Along the river's edge, they scavenge

the living and the dead—salmon
come inland from the sea.

One worn salmon's strength
is equal only to the current.

It makes no headway. Swims in place
as a gull tears red flesh from its spine.

My nephew palms a smooth stone
inside his soft fist, asks,

Should I throw it at the bird?
I say, That's for you to decide.

by Simon Perchik

These petals taking command, the flower
pinned down and the work stops
—your breath dragged back

where it's safe and in your lungs
hides the way each sky is named
after the word for stone

for this small grave each Spring
the dirt adds to till suddenly
you are full height, your lips

defending you against the cold
waiting it out in your mouth
—they too want you to talk

to call them by name
say what they sound like
turning away, alone, alone and alone.

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