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Notes
Editor’s
From You
Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize Winners
Author’s: David James Duncan
Artist’s: Aaron Lee Benson
Last
Poetry
Courtney King Kampa: At Noon (Winning Poem)
Lauren Schmidt: From Wall to Wall: A Walk Beneath Goldfinches (Runner-up Poem)
John Fitzpatrick: Wood Lasts
Darcy Halstead: from my seat under the bell
Ruth Spalding: Fraud
Judith Deem Dupree: Prestidigitation
Adie Smith: Along the Natchez Trace, What Has Been Woven
D.R. James: Vast
Laurie Klein: Venice, in the Absence of Faith
Richard Osler: The Dead of the Day
Lisa Cronkhite: Catholic Girl
Mattie Quesenberry Smith: To a Fishing Father
Diane Tucker: Time is pouring out of the pitcher and I fail to drink it
Karen Luke Jackson: Porch Rhapsody
Don Thompson: And after the fire a sound of sheer silence, I am a stranger in the earth
Fiction
Jesse McBride: I ate the apple at seven
Nonfiction
April Schmidt: 40 Days
Prose
Diane Glancy: A Stone I Could Not Lift
Art
Aaron Lee Benson: Two Witnesses Detail, Two Witnesses , The Thin Narrow Eternal Way, Lazarus and Rich Man Detail
Nora Howell: Womb Detail, Womb, Embodied
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We're turning three. I realize this may not sound like much, but with the ephemeral existence of literary magazines, many perishing after their first year, we are darn proud of our ripe old age. And with it still feeling like a minor miracle every time a new issue reaches a mailbox, a new reader subscribes, or a new writer submits, three years truly is a milestone.
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Read more... [Editor's Note]
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Courtney King Kampa
a barefoot man paced Beacon Street
in his boxers, repeating an order for tuna salad
to a curbside waitress none of us could see.
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Read more... [At Noon]
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Lauren Schmidt
After Kabul, Afghanistan, 1967, photographed by Thomas J. Abercrombie, National Geographic
Crowned with a cage of two finches,
a woman leans on an earthen wall,
nicked and dusted in a coat of dirt.
She lilts in the heat, palms brace
against the wall as if pinned to it.
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Read more... [From Wall to Wall: A Walk Beneath Goldfinches]
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April Schmidt
The skin on my palms is peeling, separating from the creases like
riverbanks sheering away from a canyon. I scrape away the whitish
peels, my palm flinching, and clear the dead, moist skin from my
fingernails. My grandmother says the same thing happened to her when
she met my grandfather.
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Read more... [40 Days]
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Issue #13 
