Poetry

My mother has a brief flirtation
with Mr. Otto, a rare male in Frail Care.
He has the look of a Slavic conductor
—sweeping, side-parted silver locks
offset his visible nappy line.

Widowhood in the Dementia Ward

October 1, 2012 Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry

By FINUALA DOWLING

“Oh my God, I’m so pleased to see you,”
she says from her nest of blankets.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—
How is your father?
How is Paddy?”

The Window

October 1, 2012 Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry

By MAKHOSAZANA XABA

You fitted so snugly
through the window I opened wide for you.
Then you shut it with a bang giving me your back.
The shards, too small, took forever to gather.
I put them in that wooden bowl you made.

Writer

October 1, 2012 Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry

By HAIDEE KRUGER

Histoplasmosis: A Guide’s Instruction at the Cave

September 1, 2012 Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry

By INGRID DE KOK

If after a few weeks you find yourself coughing,
your chest laced in a corset of steel,
tell your doctor you were here.
Tell him about the bats, their investment in the dark,
their droppings spongy fudge
which you probably tramped on in the cave,
the spores you may have breathed
now inhabiting your lung tissue,
taking all your breath
for the growing fungus
inside you.

Studies

April 9, 2012 Poetry

By AMELIA GRAY

Slush

Not enough snow to stick, Mother says. A pissing thin layer of the saddest slick. Even the road made visible underneath. Used to be you could die in a winter, wander right off the road and dead in a field before you had your second thought, but these days everyone gets to their destination. Have you ever arrived in a springtime with your entire family intact?