We the pigeons of circular flight
circumvent our escape route
for cages rule us
in to returning
back to


The Pigeons
Woody Holmes

I saw a dead bird outside of the restaurant. The ants had picked the skin and meat off the head, leaving the rest of the body intact. I looked at the bird for a couple minutes.
I did not know how it died, or how long it had been there, lying dead on the concrete. The trail of the ants could be traced going back into the grass, where the clumps of blades created a forest. I left after two minutes.

-A bird soared over


J.G. Smith

My body is a slave. It has been raised from birth to be used by others. It toils in dense fields miles from its master's home, it is not meant to sit on the porch and bask in the tic-tac-toe patterns of screen doors and the condensation of cool drinks.

My body is a slave. The question that is never answered is, "Why?" Why was I put here only to be born in unlucky skin, into calloused hands that are forced to hold those hands who are soft, slender, relaxed? I am in a different elliptical pattern from the plantation, the sun center of the house of my master beaming at me, too far to feel warmth but close enough to get burned.

My body is a slave. Your body, is a slave. Some masters press hot iron monograms into their slaves chests or backs. You tell me you are trapped once this happens. When I see these scars I have heard the most quiet of screams.


My Body is a Slave
Roxanne Smith

the yellow burned
and stole
the evening.
I felt it grow
as I walked


J.G. Smith

Last night I had this dream.

The whole world
seemed grey and thin.
There was a pale sun


Sean Carlisle

On a train to Porvoo
The heat and
the woman with the skirt pulled above her knees
Her daughter a mirror image of 20 years ago
How passing on beauty drains it from you


The Dress
Woody Holmes

symbolic language designed
to communicate thoughts
as distinguished from oral speech
cries from the heart given
to humans to capture our ideas


Parole et Pensée
Emily Strauss

The night sky is only made of
carefully folded black
construction paper
and dotted gel pen.


Roxanne Smith

--poetry is what language alone can do

what is this thing called poetry—
merely language?
Is it sufficient, words alone,


Language Alone
Emily Strauss