Wednesday, September 29, 2021

How to Dream in a Foreign Language by Steve Klepetar

Speak with an accent,
as if your tongue had been soaked
in vinegar, as if your teeth
had been nibbling ice and cheese.

Roll on the surface of this bed
like a clown sweeping a puddle of light.

Play a folk tune on the violin
as the old couple dances in the living room.

Collect smooth white pebbles
by a small pond
where children search for salamanders,
the ones glowing red in late summer grass.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. Recent poems appear in Verse-Virtual, Midlothien Poetry Review, and One Sentence Poems.

Wednesday, September 15, 2021

The Orchard by Andrew Williams

The dainty hand plucks a Gala apple.
Under the tree, I open the bag—
space for one more.

Walking back, the cicada chorus
whirrs, like a biker revving her engine
before speeding off.

Summer is nearly over; fall is imminent,
and yet, the heat continues
to linger.

            As the daylight fades, we stop,
plant ourselves, and eat an apple together,
as dusk turns to darkness.

Andrew Williams is a writer living with his family in Pennsylvania, USA.

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Letter to My Mother by Terri Kirby Erickson

If only I had been there to catch you when you fell,
to hold you in my arms and lower you to the ground.

It was September, among the leaves and blossoms
of your yard that I found you—the mother I adore,

in the sleep from which you never again awakened.
I would have done anything to save you, but there

was nothing of you to save—only the body you left
behind like a sweater draped across a chair. Every

day since, I have walked the earth with grief lodged
in my throat like a bone, shouldering the burden of

your sorrows as well my own, as if they belong to me.
The son you lost became my son and my brother, our

misery merged into one. And each disappointment of
your life, every regret, turned into mine. But it is time

now, to stop picking up the pain you have discarded,
trying to heal what has already been healed. I want to

carry, instead, memories of your laughter, and the love
you gave to me—as weightless in my hands as light.

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The Sun, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.