• The Unchosen

    Richard Rosenthal

    Winter 2018

    All my life I’ve played hard to get.
    Picked myself last, so to speak,
    Teased myself with possibilities
    While learning to abstain,
    Lest I become addicted
    Or merely like it.
    I forgot the names of games
    But remembered the rules.
    A monk without an order,
    No affiliation, just the vows.
    If I can’t have me,
    No one can.

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    Diorama

    Michael Shewmaker

    Beneath the banister,
    along the wall, two racks of shoes

    and a tall black grandfather clock.
    Its face reads eight o’clock.

    It chimes. A wooden woman
    walks a small mechanical plank.

    A row of portraits scales the stairs,
    each larger than the last.

    The Ocean Next Door

    Ben Loory

    One night, the woman has a dream that the ocean moves in next door. She can see it in there rolling around, as she stares out the window across the hedge. Somehow the ocean's all lit up from below—light's sparkling through the clear blue waves—and the white-capped peaks are moving back and forth.

    Miss Mary Mack Introduces Her Wings

    Tyree Daye

    I knew freedom

    was not the act of flying
              but the steady beat of wings.

    It was my steady black,
              blue and my blues were gone,

    I wanted to be
              a bird and became.



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