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


by Milton P. Ehrlich

A Tanzanian health aid,
who sings when she talks
and dances when she walks,
diapers my friend who can
no longer swallow food
without a feeding tube.

My paralyzed 86-year-old pal
responds with a twisted smile.

Walking home, wondered
if there was a hole in my soul.

I threw away my hat and tie,
humming a song I hadn't heard
since I blew my horn years ago
playing My Funny Valentine.

My body reached for naked air
filled with flocks of singing birds
I had never seen.

VERTEBRAE by Jennifer Lothrigel

VERTEBRAE by Jennifer Lothrigel

by Taylor Graham

I meant it to be a love poem. Not for you,
I've never been able to write you a love poem.
It was for a girl they were looking for,

thirty years ago. She disappeared off Main
Street of this little town. It was front-page for
weeks. They searched all over the forest.

A camper found her behind a fallen log. Dead.
But really my poem wasn't just for her,
but also for the other two found miles apart,

behind logs in the forest. Mostly it was for
the girl loggers discovered on a ridge just above
where I walked our dogs, thirty years ago,

a pleasant forest road in June, dogwoods
blooming. Wildflowers on the creek.
I felt a shiver. My dogs ran far ahead of me

as if something in the wind — it was the girl,
scent and spirit. I turned around, called
my dogs, drove as quick as I could away. Back

to town. Something in me didn't want to
know what it knew. I meant to write a love
poem for everything we've lost, all of us.

There's foxglove and columbine in it.

LIGHT THROUGH SACRUM (Silhouette Photogram) by Christian DeLaO

LIGHT THROUGH SACRUM (Silhouette Photogram)
by Christian DeLaO

by Timothy Pilgrim

Gone, without wings she flies,
no backward glance, no time
for the massacred behind,

disemboweled — stark ending
witnessed by a murder of crows
who caw loudly before they go.

Hope could be the benchmark —
those with too little, soaring north
in dark night — with too much,

south, searching for rotted sky.
All not finding god becoming —
nor becoming god, proclaim

who dies, permit just anyone
to scavenge black coffins,
no entrails left inside.

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