by Bri Gregory

I wondered where death lived.
I found it ruffling seagull feathers.
I did what a child would, found a stick
to lift wing’s edges, and saw him there.

by Rachel Linn

I wonder, is it possible to carry matter as rocks do? To accumulate minerals? To reveal heat and pressure and deformation; to contain visible histories? To harden—to crystalize or fossilize—and then gently erode.

by Jeanie Greenfelder

Birds reclaim their beach,
lounge in the sun or set up
umbrellas for shade…

by John Burgess

no one makes eye contact
like that’s the way
this virus spreads

Art by Ann-Marie Brown.

Each of these paintings was completed before the coronavirus lockdown. Looking at them now, the monologues of solitary figures, they seem to resonate with this moment in time.

Non-fiction by Linda Kohler

Yesterday evening, I caught the sky stretching its wings. They were pied pink, lit at the edges, and on the left wing was tattooed a smooth, crescent moon.

A Pair of Gloves

by Rebecca Hart Olander

Is there a more perfect way to reconcile than this?
To claim the season in one’s body, to be the green?

A monologue by Coleman.

A woman stands alone. Strong. Serene. Dressed in denim. Holding a live chicken*.
We hear her thoughts.