Mass Sculpting

He comes home with a bundle of clay.
Both he and his wife move clean hands
over it and already it begins
to mold and shape in their design.

Each touch of their nurturing hands makes
the form a little clearer, just a
bit more human. Soon they must leave this
beauty in a foreign public place.

Other hands touch this angelic artwork,
and in time pieces and fragments are lost
in the clutch of misguided palms,
storage ideas, and warped beliefs.

In time this sculpture forms fangs and claws,
the owners try and save what they can,
but end up crying, bitten
by their own creation of good intent.

Evan Zeitler

Sticks and Stones

I’ll be trading barbs with you
until one finally sticks —
heavy to your ribs —
making each breath you take
sharp and painful.

I won’t feel guilty
as I watch you labor
to forget my words —
but they are attached
to each of your muscles,
making every move a struggle,
until you have no choice
but to still.

I will lift my upper hand —
raised so high you cannot reach it,
let it reign,
angry and hot,
let it scorch your sharp tongue,
until finally,
you fall silent.

Mandy Whyte

Storage Space

Sometimes, late at night,
you sneak up on me,
when I am lying next to the man
cleaning up the mess you made.

Your memory comes out
of the shadows, the boxes,
the depths I pushed them in.

It still hits me,
right in the chest —
and all I can think of
is the way you laughed,
your crooked teeth
and the clumsy smile
that hid your sharp tongue
and all the words you battered me with.

I look at him,
focus until his form blurs —
and you retreat
back into darkness,
where you can’t hurt me anymore.

Mandy Whyte

The Flood

Rain falls,
steady on the tin roof,
and rolls down, down, the side
of this old house.

Thunder rolls,
sending critters deep into
the woods, seeking safety
and a place to stay dry.

Water flows,
with no place to call home,
causing destruction and
devastation to happen quickly

The river recedes,
silent and alone,
and the flood is forgotten
like it never came at all.

Kassie Hill


Hands of sleep
pick me up
and deliver me to
the unconscious.

Cradling gently
as a mother,
rock me slowly
to crazy, feral dreams.

Sing me to sleep
with hushed lullabies
warming me slow to
the harvest moon.

Sara Reimann