Migration Patterns

By Sara Brickman Owosso, Michigan is cinder blocks
stacked on top of potato cellars and steamrolled
grey. There’s a lot of corn,

The Dogs and I Walked Our Woods,

By Gretchen Primack and there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink

By Myra Sklarew In the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,

By Gretchen Primack This is the press of the earth. One star hanging
there, honking like a goose. The lake
a smudge of black juice, the hill a draped

By Amaranth Borsuk Few things the hand wished language could
do, given up on dialect's downward spiral:
words so readily betray things they're meant

By Jericho Brown They said to say goodnight
And not goodbye, unplugged
The TV when it rained. They hid

By Rachel M. Simon the name altered from parent's choosing
the threshold of a home
white gloves on the windowsill

By Yvette Neisser Moreno Something tender about skin
and muscle framed by ancient stone.
The pyramids behind us in silhouette,

By Jonathan B. Tucker pardon our appearance
as we grow to better serve you
says the sign on the fence

By Kim Roberts O augury seeker,
know and be aware...
In the book of divination,