The church is a bare room with pews,
No carved wood or colored glass, no cross.
The pastor speaks a few soft words
And leads a much-beloved hymn
"Believe on the Son," not in,
As if faith has mass and weight.
At the graveyard, a few steps away,
We pray but interment is delayed.
The casket's caught on an iron stave
So a nimble man in mechanic's khaki
Straddles the grave and kicks backward.
Helplessly we look away.
It's a long view through pale sunlight,
Distance softened over the farmland plain.
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Issue 52
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Editor's Note
-
Poetry
- Mark Aiello
- Victoria Anderson
- Jeremy Bass
- Michael Blumenthal
- Alan Britt
- Sherry Chandler
- Regina Colonia-Willner
- Richard D. Hartwell
- RJ Hooker
- Jack Israel
- Betsy Johnson-Miller
- Roger Jones
- Marilyn McCabe
- Robert Andrew Perez
- Seth Perlow
- Glenis Gale Redmond
- Robin Richardson
- James Silas Rogers
- Jordan Smith
- Bruce Taylor
- Michael Wynn
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Essay
- Kurt Brown LONG STORY SHORT: Techniques Of Fiction In Poetry
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Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews "Lucky Coat Anywhere"
by Michael Burkard
- David Rigsbee reviews "Lucky Coat Anywhere"