My Grandfather’s Exhibit
by John Davis Jr.
She tries to draw her father, a generic round face atop a stick body. She does not remember how
It unlisted from our lexicon along with ancestors’ harder drawls and ways:
The thing was, she wasn't really pretty. How many movie stars, in the firmament of Hollywood, that tinseled, technicolor world,
by Patricia Lewis Speir Eerie shadows spread across the narrow, twisty river, reflections, perhaps, of a Calusa Indian's spirit lingering in the dense cypress and palmetto hammocks readying his canoe of yellow pine
by John Davis Jr. My hands are older today than I remember. Overnight, they’ve seasoned into my grandfather’s: one rigid blue vein ridging each index finger like long-repaired irrigation lines running
by Deborah R. Majors I saw, pushed by a semi’s draft, Florida’s snow float from heaven to Pine to grass then tumbleweed
by Phoebe Brown There is vibrant sound here. Cicadas rattle their wings together—warm