The marigolds still quarrel in the bed
we made beside the house last spring. With fall
near gone and winter on its way, we're ready
to be done with marigolds. We quarrel. The bed
they shared with parsley, basil, thyme has bred
another batch where none should stand at all.
Marigolds? Still quarreling? The bed
we made should hide, not house, such spring in fall.
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Issue 58
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
- Fleda Brown
- Susana H Case
- Shawn Delgado
- Robert Fanning
- Rebecca Foust
- Alice Friman
- John Hart
- K. A. Hays
- Gary Leising
- Matthew Lippman
- Alessandra Lynch
- Amit Majmudar
- Christopher Todd Matthews
- Kathryn Nelson
- Jennifer Poteet
- Sara Quinn Rivara
- Susan Rothbard
- Natalie Scenters-Zapico
- Grace Schulman
- Philip Shalom Terman
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Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Oppressive Light
by Robert Walzer
- David Rigsbee reviews Oppressive Light
Issue > Poetry
That New
At the market today, I look for Piñata
apples, their soft-blush-yellow. My husband
brought them home last week, made me guess at
the name of this new strain, held one in his hand
like a gift and laughed as I tried all
the names I knew: Gala, Fuji, Honey
Crisp—watched his face for clues—what to call
something new? It's winter, only tawny
hues and frozen ground, but that apple bride
was sweet, and I want to bring it back to him,
that new. When he cut it, the star inside
held seeds of other stars, the way within
a life are all the lives you might live,
each unnamed, until you name it.
apples, their soft-blush-yellow. My husband
brought them home last week, made me guess at
the name of this new strain, held one in his hand
like a gift and laughed as I tried all
the names I knew: Gala, Fuji, Honey
Crisp—watched his face for clues—what to call
something new? It's winter, only tawny
hues and frozen ground, but that apple bride
was sweet, and I want to bring it back to him,
that new. When he cut it, the star inside
held seeds of other stars, the way within
a life are all the lives you might live,
each unnamed, until you name it.