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


by Timothy Pilgrim

Mother, father, both gone, dead,
two truths emerge for any children left.
One, you are an orphan. Two, you are next.

OCTOBER 11 by Lynn Crounse

OCTOBER 11 by Lynn Crounse

by Simon Perchik

The glaze from your stone
shelters this sink, carved
by its constant drip

for shoreline and more foam
—twice every day
I shave to make room

though my beard
never has a chance
trembling in graveyard grass

—I begin each morning
then again by going home
to mow, barely holding on

though each cheek
half blood, half
wandering alone

weighs almost nothing
except for the splash
that clings to your name.

OAXACA by Ruben Briseno Reveles

OAXACA by Ruben Briseno Reveles

by Ashley Warren

Sitting still like an ice-picked
statue, a record crackles
and a visible wind makes
the ice daggers shake.
The sun, useless, sheds dust rays
over photos of warmth
and pale fingers too dry to bend.

I listen for drops of thaw,
then remember that the storm
is still tired.
Too tired for noise above a whistle,
too bitter to paint with green, and still
eager to point the needle

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