By Janet Frost
Rain turns the honeysuckle sweet,
like the Sunday afternoon
spent under the
and the rain
turned us to nectar.
By Shane Lukas
It’s your burden that stinks
of the blooming magnolias,
cheeky petals excited for the storm –
thicken the clouds with each drink,
shape lightning as a cracked glass—
still your scent, still this weight—
You’re a window
And a man falling from it—
how I came to love you,
crushed to seed under the weather.
By Sam Pedisich
We learned about maps
first to go back to where we had once been,
before we could find no shelter but a storied hay barn,
unfenced against an antelope herd
that preferred the living green waves
as fishing boats haunt restless swells.
Later we had a back stoop four low fences from
a schoolyard where children shrieked to celebrate
or remind me of rigging pinging masts in an
Oh, before the maps—
We had mandatory lines on the gym floor
but we were long-distance runners
so found it all too small.
On the last Friday night we stayed
spinning, arms outstretched,
so I tried to hear your fingertips,
taste your whisper.