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THE SECRET LIFE OF MACHINES #1
by Frank Possemato A machine is not a living thing 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 still 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 |
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GULLS
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. |
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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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