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An owl, as large and incongruous in the night sky as a flying man.

There is beauty in the way she looks at me over the kitchen table.

I can remove my hand the second it becomes too much for me.

I screamed every word and waited for the stones to answer back.

The rich man adorns himself and the elegant man gets dressed.

Once she said, “Dying is nothing, but . . . the separation!”

Just some wine, Ellie told herself. Just to prove she wasn’t chicken.

The blade was buried to the hilt in the outside corner of his left eye.

He was regarded as a visionary and a fool in almost equal measure.

Here we were, seventeen, trapped by the sheer number of bodies.

I pictured myself as a chart inside her head. Two sides: good and bad.

I’ve made a rigorous effort. But it’s been hard, this hug embargo.

“Listen,” Mike said. “You’ve had a hard day. How about I drive you home?”

Writing at night just feels . . . sneaky. There’s an outlaw quality to it.

Rina Piccolo

Premonitions return to me like a carrier pigeon, disaster strapped to its leg.

To be married is to learn to love, captive in your own new country.

My husband once said he wanted to die eaten by a panther.

It’s like listening to the snow falling before sticking out your tongue.

The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.

Sue Mell

“The rattlesnakes glow in the dark, man. You should see them.”

The light, returning, nudged me from sleep, and walked me to dinner.

If someone looked into his eyes they would see how ugly his mind was.

Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.

There, in the courtyard, a man might sit and call himself your friend.

Because I am lonely, I am always shying away from the mirror.

They’re shrieking down Little Round Top, receiving the good girls’ glares.

He hit all of us sometimes, but he hit me hardest and the most.

We roasted mastodons. Designed skewers, ovens, steampits.