'Virginia to New York, Again' and 'Roots,' two poems about growing up.
Mom isn't sure; knows he tinkered
and babied it, an old Ford, the "weekender"
model. I feel obligated to bushhog
by Mike Harrell
You go on ahead, General.
The river is swift and I’m unsure
of those shadows. I’d like to lay down
my arms but I’ve developed a taste
by Danna Molly Weiss The sun is slipping like a lucky gold coin back into God’s pocket for the night
And I am writing, daring as Emily Dickinson beneath my prim parted hair