Issue 2.1 Ruth Foley

Forked Roads by John Francis Istel
“How many candles do you see? Mother? How many? Can you see how many? Sit up.

Waking by Karin C. Davidson
“‘Sleep, sleep, sleep,’ my mother says. But I cannot help thinking about waking the next morning.”

The Box by Greg Bottoms
“Danny Glover—a fourteen-year-old white kid from Smithfield, Virginia, not the actor from…”

Form-Fall by Marco Wilkinson
“A tree evaporates into the universe and falls back to earth: timber to paper to coffee cup to compost to dirt.”

Swept by Emily Vizzo
“Startling, this body-bump of asterisks finding its way…

Sea Lion by Emily Vizzo
“The stink of him came to me first, a salty hit of kelp…

Mario’s Grocery Has No Cameras by Chris Mink
“In lane twelve a young mother wearing…

During the Tornado, I’m Thinking of Stars by Sara Henning
“They’re calling them sisters, funnels grafted…

The Dead Wait on the Living to Go on Living by Kim Garcia
“The chairs wide-mouthed and silent in each others’ presence…

Mountain Aubade by Kim Garcia
“Inside a blue-cupped palm, yellow tipped mountain, wild dogwood, pine…

Mending by Ruth Foley
“For once, I am not thinking of a place…”

Doubt is the angel of our time by Ruth Foley
“Of any time, I’d wager—any movement…

Cleansing Flights by Ruth Foley
“The temporary unfurling of the rhododendron…

Pitcher by Will Cordeiro
“I’m such a flirt…

Wild Horse / Wild Deer by John Casteen
“Deep beneath the night, its lidded vault of stars…”

Figure by John Casteen
“As in, cuts an elegant…”

I Saw You by JC Bouchard
“I saw you on the roundabout…”

Ruth Foley

Doubt is the angel of our time

 

Of any time, I’d wager—any movement
you can think of has its eyes on those
wings, wondering when they will rise
and sweep. Whether we’ll go toward
or away from knowledge is anybody’s
guess, no matter what they might want
you to believe. No faith but in
the questioning, because a lack of
query is a lack of thought. And let me
put it this way: I am a thinking woman.
Sometimes, the only word for bone
is bone, despite its lack of rattle.
Look long at salt or stone and try
to tell me otherwise. Is that not messenger
enough? This afternoon, a black and
orange snake bent itself over a jumble
of upturned rock and soil, around
a shock of grass. When I leapt back
it became a root, dead, part-stripped,
glossed with rain. And I can’t tell you
now whether it was intervention or
reinvention, salvation or distance.

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