Issue 3.2: Michael Lauchlan

Issue No 3.2

An Early History of Hang Gliding by Leslie Maxwell
“The day after her mother died, Evie did not go to school. Tenth grade had just begun, and Evie had spent the last three weeks trying to decide who she would be this year, and now, here, just as suddenly, tenth grade seemed far away from her mind…”

Mirror Look At Me by Laura Tansley
“His side of the bed was cold to the touch. Her door was ajar, the bed boldly made to prove a point: she had not slept, not here at least…”

Meeting Uncle Charlie by Sarah Abbott
“My uncle Charlie drove up in his red sedan, the car in good shape but an older model, and parked to the left of our driveway…”

Three Broken Hearts by Anthony J. Mohr
“It was a Saturday in March 1963. My father and I were having lunch at the Rendezvous Room in the Beverly Hilton Hotel…”

Quotidienne by Nandini Dhar
“Mother is busy wiping off the cumin-dust from the old photographs, book-spines…”

Fog in Michigan by Michael Lauchlan
“The big tire beside the highway, the blue bridge, billboards, and all marks of a flat land vanish…”

The Lave by Michael Lauchlan
“On our wedding night, the noise jars us—thieves boosting our mower….”

Widow Gardening by Grace Mattern
“She digs in the garden, pulls weeds by their roots and leaves them to wilt…”

The Lave


I’ll get a blessing wi’ the lave, / An never miss ‘t. Robert Burns
On our wedding night, the noise
jars us—thieves boosting our mower.
Hearing your outrage, I give chase
down the alley. When they slip
between houses toward a waiting van,
I see the rusted, recalcitrant thing
they’ve prized from our grasp, see
myself, spent and comical, wearing
my only suit. Does laughter really rise
from some loosened hatch in our guts?
Maybe it breaks over us like a wave
on the east end of a lake when wind
has piled water for a hundred miles
and a moon tugs the tide higher yet
until we’re dowsed, all breath
knocked from us, our legs folded,
our sense askew. Loss offers us
its one poor gift, loud or rueful,
and pins us to the ragged earth, leaves
us gasping, upturned, primed
for a bed, then a trek down
real alleys and imagined roads.

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