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
a pair of poems by Terry Minchow-Proffitt
Once Mohawk Rubber and Doughboy Plastic
closed shop, the carnival bucketed into town,
a shaman’s grin with neon teeth.
Fast-talking strangers played host
to our drubbed daddies, the shamefaced lost
by Ryan Prince
Isn't a place
It's not a town or a square
With a statue
by Harold Whit Williams
Colbert County, Alabama 1980
We stroll these tracks beside the Memphis road.
We laugh and toss some clods against an oak
That stood when Davis donned a dress and stowed
by Deborah R. Majors
pushed by a semi’s draft,
float from heaven
by Rachael Evans
The sun beats down
as I craft life
sitting amid the soybeans
by Tracy Lynn Darling
She visited once
every two, three months
no particular timing she’d stay all day
and we found none of this
peculiar in any way
From Memphis to Vicksburg,
the blues percolate from sweat-soaked soil
of the Mississippi Delta
by Phoebe Brown
There is vibrant
sound here. Cicadas rattle
their wings together—warm
by Kitty Liang
a woman knits next to me.
she does not notice
her ball of yarn twitching
lightly against my thigh.
every second, her fingers crisscross
in the exact same way